


Fill Holes With More Cement

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fantasy Drug Use, M/M, Modern AU but ghouls are still ghouls and super mutants and still super mutants, Underage Drinking, tags will be updated as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 23:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15351483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: The Lone Wanderer is a freshman in his second semester at Vault-Tec University, DC, just trying to finish the year up with his friends he’s getting the feeling just put up with him since they’ve all known each other since highschool. Charon is a ghoul bouncer at the seedy 9th Circle, trying to get through the night herding underaged college kids without his boss Ahzrukhal deducting his pay so he can go home to the rickety brownstone he shares with Willow.(A Modern!College AU where ghouls are still ghouls and there are some aspects of pre-Great War Fallout mixed in.)





	1. you fell asleep in my car that i drove the whole time

**Author's Note:**

> if you know what song the title is from please dont tell anyone about my bad taste in music.

Charon's good at making quick decisions. The kid is clearly underaged. Too much hair gel swept up into his hair that it looks crunchy, too much cologne assaulting his deadened sense of smell. Already intoxicated. Eyes going to every other person in the line.

Even if he wasn’t standing in front of him, Charon would have known. The ID is a fake, like nearly every other person's in the line. It's his face in the picture, for sure, but there's no chance this baby face outlined in the popped up leather collar standing before him is 23. It's too clean for being anything other than an ID taken out at bars and liquor stores, for one. And the colors themselves are all wrong. Too bright and just a shade off.

"Butch DeLoria?"

"December 27th, 1993." The kid rattles off automatically, even in his state of intoxication. He grins like he's really pulling the wool over his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Charon frowns. He’s clearly prideful over knowing the fake date on his fake New Hampshire driver's license.

Charon exhales slow through the ruined remains of his nose, his breath condensing in the chill. He could deny him, of course. He's sure, in some other bar, that would be the actual point of his job, to help the bartenders and owners obey the law. But he fits the type that Ahzrukhal wanted in the 9th Circle; young, and drunk, and stupid enough to buy too many overpriced drinks to clumsily spill on a sticky dance floor packed like underdressed sardines. The ID is more of a flexible prerequisite. They have to have an ID, some form that says they may be the legal drinking age, even if it was written in crayon. Plausible deniability.

Butch lowers his arms, suddenly stuffing his hands sheepishly into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders hunching. There are few perks to his job, but Charon gets his dull amusements where he can. He stares long and hard at the card, watching Butch's face fall and grow anxious in his peripheral as he tilts it up and side-to-side to catch the lighting of the building’s bare bulb shining above them. Slowly sliding his gaze back up, he stares Butch down. The panic on his face isn't subtle. Butch, for all of his previous bravado, looks moments from scrambling away, leaving his eighty-dollar booze investment in Charon's ghoulified hands. There's a couple behind him, holding hands, peering at them with bated breath.

He can't keep Charon's gaze. Charon snorts, and hands the card back. Butch has a look of pure terror on his face. "Go in."

His eyes widen. Butch almost drops the card when he takes it from Charon’s hand and bolts by him like his ass is on fire; Charon almost misses the can of beer hanging out of his back pocket. Charon has fast enough reflexes that he manages to pull it out before Butch's gone; it throws off his step almost immediately as he twists and halts himself just centimeters from running face first into the door.

"H-hey! That's my beer."

"Not in my bar," Charon barks, depositing the can in the pocket of his jacket . "Get in before I change my mind."

Butch stands there for a moment, wide-eyed, before he pushes in through the front door. The girl next in line sighs heavily.

The boy next to her peers over her shoulder with a frown. They're around the same height, but he almost looks like he's hiding behind her, and it’s making him look smaller. "He was supposed to wait in the doorway." He stage whispers into the girls ear. He's clinging to her like an anxious dog, one hand now on her bicep, the other brushing loose curls from his face.

"It's fine. It's winter, anyway. He just wanted to get inside. We all do." She replies soothingly over her shoulder to her friend, though there's an undercurrent of irritation bleeding through, whether from having to pacify him or the aforementioned winter cold. Butch was fully clothed, with jeans and a leather jacket thrown over the depressingly uniform going-out men's wardrobe of a button down in plaid. Her dress has long sleeves but only went so far down as her upper thigh, reaching around mid-thigh when she tugs it down out of reflex. She already has her ID out in hand. When she turns her focus on Charon, she smiles and hands it over. Their fingers brush together as he takes it, and she minutely flinches back. "How are you tonight?"

It's not flirtatious, but simply courteous. Charon would possibly appreciate it if it wasn't one in the morning. "Fine." Charon manages to grunt back. He doesn't bother asking how she is. Amata Almadovar. 5'3, brown eyes, organ donor, and an address he's sure doesn't actually exist. She has a New Hampshire license, too, and it's just as fake. She's a no-brainer admittance, though. She barely has time to fidget with the hem of her dress before Charon hands the license back. Her face lights up.

She stuffs it quickly into her clutch. "I'll meet you inside, Adam, alright?" She says, turning around briefly. "You're fine, you'll get in."

"Wait--" Adam can only croak. He almost looks like he's about to dart in after her as it closes; Charon easily shifts his bulk fully in front of the door with a half-step. Ahzrukhal doesn't give him a stool to sit outside like some of the bars. Says it cuts his height and takes away from his intimidation factor.

"ID?"

Adam's eyes go upward to meet his. "Oh--" He seems startled. He pulls a wallet from his back pocket, fumbling it open and over, letting the flap hang open. "H-here--"

"I need to see it out of the sleeve." Charon doesn't bother to reach for it, let alone look down. Adam pulls back like he's been burnt.

"O-oh! Oh, I'm sorry. Uhm, okay, I’m sorry-" Getting the card out from the windowed slot is nearly impossible; his fingers aren't gripping it from the cold and nerves, and every extra second he takes seems to make him flounder even more. "I, uh. Sorry. Yeah, here--" He pulls it out, nearly dropping it once, before shoving it too hard into Charon's hand. Charon snatches it away.

He glances over the edge of the card towards the kid, then back at the card. This is a New York card; he knows how they're supposed to look. And while this is passing in some ways, he's seen too many in D.C. to be fooled for more than a moment. When he rubs a thumb over the pink date of birth numbers, none of them are raised; the texture of the entire card is slippery smooth.

"Address?"

312 West Street. "312 West Street." His voice wavers. Charon's eyes go back to him. He wonders if this one is younger, since his ID seems even newer than the others.

"What year did you graduate highschool?"

"2013." He rushes out, eyes darting. Most flounder and can’t come up with the number. Charon takes the moment to do the math in his head-- and he's right, if he's supposed to be 21 now, according to the card. Charon moves his thumb to the middle of the card, and he can't remember if this is the one that's supposed to feel powdery on the front or not— or, no, those were the older ones. Adam waits, wrapping his arms around his own torso. His sleeves cover his hands when he does that, the shirt too big. It's just a flannel, but he looks supremely uncomfortable in it, like it's not exactly his own.

Charon bends the card, and though it doesn't have the give like a real one, it's good enough. His friends are in there already, and for a Friday night it's comparatively slow; he won't leave him out in the cold, footing a twenty dollar cab ride back to where the colleges are by himself.

"Alright, go on in, Adam O-"

The door creeks behind him. He moves just enough out of the way to let whomever is exiting pass, but instead they wedge themselves bodily against him, invading his personal space. It's not a drunken accident. "Charon! Ah, how is everything going?" Ahzrukhal hisses between wheezing breaths and the cigarette in his mouth; the menthol smell of it is unbearable.

Charon steps aside, and presses his back against the edge of the door frame. The length of it pushes hard against the length of his spine; the digging pain keeps him focused. Ahzrukhal steps out of the entryway, entirely disregarding Adam standing there, who stumbles back and closer to Charon to get out of the way. "Fine." Ahzrukhal’s smile is too long. When he exhales, the smoke is directed at his face.

"That's good." All of his teeth flash too white when he grins. Ahzrukhal glances over at Adam, then back to Charon; he doesn't seem to either notice or care about the anxious frown on the young man's face. "I was heading through on my way to meet a client, and I thought I should stop by and see how everyone is doing."

Ahzrukhal has other bars, and other "business ventures", all of them varying amounts of seedy; anything this late at night, and Charon knows it's a drug deal. Gob works over at Moriarity's on Dupont now, and he's told Willow he's seen Ahzrukhal bringing packages in before, almost always at night when the bar's too busy to do anything but try and serve drink after drink to the college crowd. Crowded enough for everyone else to be too busy to snoop.

Despite it being a he-said she-said chain of telephone for information, Charon can believe it— he couldn’t ask Gob, even if he wanted or cared to clarify. Gob still doesn't talk to him directly, not after what Ahzrukhal had him do when he supposedly caught the til being low. Gob was an honest, if clumsy, barback. Charon knew the til was perfectly fine. But Carol's Place was a legitimate bar and Gob’s home a block down; Greta had called the cops on them on a Saturday night, got the bar busted and shuttered for the night by the cops at an offensively early hour. Ahzrukhal didn't appreciate the dip in business his mothers had caused.

Charon’s shoulders stiffen. He can feel Ahzrukhal peering over his shoulder at Adam's ID, and then Adam himself. Charon starts to hand it back, but halts his movement as Ahzrukhal reaches out. He takes the license from him, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth.

"Charon, Charon...” He tsks, “What have I said to you about your training?"

Charon keeps his face neutral. "Would you like me to get the book from under the bar?"

"Don’t get smart with me, boy,” Ahzrukhal replies, louder then intended. It quiets the line of chattering drunks, lulls them into nervous whispers. He lowers his voice, and somehow, this always sounds more dangerous, when Ahzrukhal talks low enough that the customers can’t hear. “You're not allowed to leave your post." Adam’s entire body is shivering next to him, hard, vibrating in the cold. Ahzrukhal smiles, again, but it's not very sincere. It drops off entirely as his eyes go over him once, twice.

Ahzrukhal holds his stare as he starts to bend the ID. It's too cold; whatever material it is made out of, it's obviously not the same as a legitimate one. It bends, only momentarily, and then cracks sharply in two. It’s loud, despite the background din of pedestrians and cars out for the weekend. The sound that escapes Adam's throat makes Charon worry for a moment that he's going to have to cart a body to the dumpsters around back; all the flushed color has left his face as Ahzrukhal pushes the opposite sides of the card until they are touching. The jagged plastic underneath is separating from the printed layer, broken beyond repair.

There’s nervous giggles from the small line forming behind them, the sound of people removing their own cards and trying to heat them between furiously rubbing palms. "Well, then," Ahzrukhal smiles, handing the mangled piece of plastic back. Adam cradles it, staring down at his fingers. "I'm sure Charon will show you on your way." He pats his bouncer on the shoulder in a way that could be mistaken as friendly, though Charon can feel just the edges of his overgrown fingernails biting through the thickness of his coat, into his shoulder. He pushes by and walks off down the sidewalk without further fanfare.

Adam stands there. Behind him in line there are two girls, already expectantly looking from the back of Adam’s head to Charon, starting to ease their way around. Charon sighs, clearing his throat. The scent of menthol is still sticking in the back of his throat. "You're going to have to move out of the way, kid."

"What? Oh." He looks lost. He glances around, a momentary panic on his face before he shuffles aside, finding himself in the small area between Charon and the door's alcove. He's standing too close to him and too close to the door, unnecessarily awkward, but Charon ignores him in favor of checking the IDs of people growing restless waiting behind him. They're easy acceptances. He's seen their faces around before, but he never remembers specifics; just vague faces blending in together, one after the other.

A hand gently taps his bicep.

"No." Charon preemptively answers, handing back the last woman's ID. Frowning, he turns towards Adam as she heads inside, putting himself squarely in front of the door. He's bulky and tall enough he nearly takes up the entire doorway, save for Adam's small corner he's pressed into. It’s a clausterphobic space, though; he’s a hairs breadth away from touching Adam from any angle, boxing him in against the wall.

Adam tries, anyway: "Can... can you get my friends?" He asks quietly.

Charon sighs. "I can't leave my spot, and you can't go in." He watches as Adam takes his broken ID in hand, gingerly rubbing his fingers over it to smooth it back out. His eyes have a tinge of wetness to them that's reflecting back in the glowing sign of the bar above them.

"I understand, it's just, uh..." He trails off. "Is there any way I can reach them?"

"You don't have a phone?" He crosses his arms over his chest. "You should just call a cab."

"They're not answering.." Adam mumbles, adding even more quietly, "I... I don't have any cash on me."

Charon presses his lips together in a thin line. "Who goes out without any money?"

"Amata was supposed to buy my drinks." He looks up at Charon, teeth digging into his bottom lip, "This is-- was.. My first night... u-uh." He stutters, shrinking in place.

The conversation trails off into silence. Charon's sigh sinks heavy in the night. He checks his watch. Twenty minutes until last call, and then probably thirty more until everyone was herded out. The bar was some ramshackle thing built in what was once a residential brownstone; multiple, narrow floors and steep staircases. On the bottom, there was the front door and the employee back exit-only people could leave through. He could tell him to wait here, but there was a chance that his friends would slip out the back door and never see him, anyway.

Adam probably doesn't know that. His soft voice calls him out of his thoughts: "What's your name?"

Charon frowns, stuffing his fists in the pockets of his jacket. He shifts his gaze back. Adam’s brushing his curls from his face, trying to tuck them fruitlessly behind a ear, even as they fall back. There’s something strangely entrancing about it, watching the bounce of his hair, the motion of his fingers. "Charon. Is Adam really yours?"

"Yeah..." He concentrates on his feet scuffing against the sidewalk.

Charon rubs his fingers over the plastic covering the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He's waiting until his shift ends, even though he's sure Ahzrukhal isn't coming back tonight. But if he does, it's his head if he's caught smoking within however many feet of the bar, whatever the rule is that he arbitrarily applies to his employees and not his customers. "Are those good friends that left you out here?"

Adam winces. "I'm not... I'm not friends with Butch." He frowns. "And Amata is... she's nice. I think, when she's with other people, like her Dad, and Butch, maybe.. she just does different things." His voice is small in the cold, “Uhm. She acts different.”

What does he know; Charon doesn't have any friends himself. Willow, as his roommate, doesn't count. But he's still sure Adam's friends aren't good friends, either.

Charon sighs. "Look, last call is in..." He pauses to pull back the sleeve of his jacket and check his watch. It says 1:10, which means it's actually 1:23. Last call should be happening soon. "Five minutes. Let's hope they don't exit out of the back--"

"There's a back?" Adam sounds hopeless.

"Near the bathrooms." Charon gestures vaguely in their direction with a tilt of his head. He shoves his hands back into the pockets of his jacket. Adam makes a quiet, distraught noise, turning to look towards the road. But he doesn’t make a move to leave the doorway. Charon turns, too. His hips bump against Adam’s, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care. He has nowhere else to go, anyway.

Mostly, the people who are coming up to the door are so far gone, they’re barely coherent enough to protest when Charon turns them away. It’s the people leaving, to catch cabs and smoke outside, that are more inconvenient. Every time he has to move aside, bumping into Adam. He feels overly conscious of the way their bodies are touching,

Last call comes, crawling, as Charon openly watches his watch, and the seconds tick by. Charon moves out of the way of the door; people pour out in singles and pairs and groups, stumbling and chatty, shouting and rowdy. A few times, he has to move people along, growl at them to leave the doorway. Gob had always had trouble getting the last of the patrons out, but the new bartender has no such qualms shouting at people to leave as he wiped the bar down. People didn't come to the 9th Circle for its friendly service. He doesn't see Butch, or Amata, though the faces of smoothskins pouring out start to blur together in his head.

Someone bumps into him, knuckles gently rapping against his back. He turns. It's Adam, again. He is looking up at him, standing just a hair too close to be comfortable. "Nobody else is coming out from the back."

Charon takes the half-step away to put some space in between them. Adan doesn't seem to notice.

"Did someone spill something on you?" Adam asks, his gaze downward. Charon follows it; a wet patch has blossomed from his coat pocket, dribbling southward. Cursing under his breath, he reaches in and pulls the beer can from his pocket. It's sticky-wet, but even with a quick lookover wherever the beer is escaping isn't noticeable. A small puncture, probably; he places it into the alcove of the doorway, the can bending with the force of the motion.

"Oh. That's Butch's." Adam says, no lack of guilt in his voice.

"Yeah," Charon grunts, turning his pocket inside out. It's futile. All of the beer has soaked in, it just hadn't soaked through to his skin, yet. He glances at Adam. "Did you find them?"

He shakes his head.

Charon had been expecting that. Because he wouldn't have returned, if he had found his friends, would he?

"I'm not..." Charon presses his thin lips together, exhaling hard. "Taking you anywhere. You're only, what?"

He looks expectantly at Adam. He flushes. "Twenty." He supplies.

Charon exhales again.

Adam looks at his feet. "Eighteen."

Charon grunts. And then, "Don't lie anymore."

"I don't--!” He’s defensive, but pleading, “I never do, usually. This isn't..." He wrings his hands. "It's not really my th-thing. Uhm. I... I just don't have the money for a cab."

"I don't either." Charon adds simply. Adam flushes from his neck to the tips of his ears. "And I can't afford to cab you."

Silence hangs between them. Adam's breath comes out in short little puffs of condensation; he has his fingers folded into the sleeves of the flannel, curled around into fists, and those are shoved under his armpits. He stares at his feet. "I just don't know... where to go. I uhm. I was—"

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to go with strange ghouls?" Charon deadpans, just on the edge of self-deprecating.

Adam's smile is small, and strange, "Not really."

Charon stares at him. He is going to regret this, probably. "You have a metro card?"

"No?" Adam says, then stops. He pats himself down quickly; pants pockets, turning them inside out, and then the front pocket on his flannel. His face lights up as he pulls a well-worn paper card from his pocket. "Maybe? This is Butch's. The card. And the, uh, the flannel. He uh, h-he said I couldn't wear anything of mine out."

Charon takes the card. It will do.

He briefly pokes his head into the bar, yelling at the bartender from afar that he's leaving for the night. Usually, he would help clean up, but tonight he says it fast enough and ducks right back out before anyone can call for him. He doesn't do it often, so he's confident they won't gripe to Azrukhal about it; if they do, he’ll handle the consequences. Adam follows on his heels almost immediately. They start walking towards the metro station. It's not far, about four blocks away. Charon, finally, pulls the pack of reds from his pocket and lights a cigarette. He offers the open pack towards Adam; the way the kid shakes his head, he can tell he doesn't like the habit. But he also doesn't care enough to not light up, even with his watery eyes staring at him like that. It keeps him awake, when it's three in the morning and all he wants is a warm bed and a good nights sleep.

Adam sticks close to his side, almost too close; he's partially bumping against him every other step, his side hitting Charon's. Despite the smoke, even, though Charon is trying not to exhale in his direction.

"You new in the city?"

"Uh, yeah." Adam mumbles, trying not to look at anything but his feet in front of him. "I go to Vault-Tec University."

"I can tell." Charon says, hunching as the wind picks up, funneled by the tall buildings through the city streets. The tips of his fingers holding his cigarette feel numb.

Adam shivers next to him. They walk the rest of the way in silence. Before they head down, Charon stubs out his cigarette against the concrete partition to the stairs. They walk down the escalators. They should be right on time.

Charon swipes his card through the gates, and Adam follows with Butch's old metro card. The turnstile barrier pulls back, which means there is at least enough to get him through. Adam skitters through like it's going to close back up on him midway and cut him in half.

There aren't many people down at this stop at this time of night; just one smoothskin, not counting Adam, three other ghouls, and there's a homeless super mutant sleeping sitting up, cross-legged, against a column in the corner. There’s a cardboard sign at his feet that he would read if he didn’t know better than to not make any eye contact. Charon stands with his shoulders against a column and Adam stands next to him, silent. The metro pulls into the stop three minutes after the electronic ticker says it will, the lights lining the tracks edges lighting up in quiet warning.

Adam follows Charon into the metro car when the doors open. Charon keeps an eye on the kid. It's almost reflexive. His luck, he'd not go through, and the doors would close with one on each side of the door.

He's not sure why he feels responsible for him at all, really. A female voice outside of the car says, "Please stand back, doors closing," as they groan their way shut.

"You leave in the morning." Charon says it without looking at Adam, momentarily gripping a pole as he stalks towards the back, away from any of the other passengers that also entered behind them. He takes his seat, trying not to touch the tacky fabric any more than he needs to. Adam sits next to him, too close. Their sides are touching. Even through the flannel, he feels cold. Sighing, Charon bears it. "Call your friends when they're sober to pick you up."

He nods. "Of course."

Charon pulls his phone from his pocket, to check the time.

"Mandarin...?" Adam asks suddenly, his eyes on the symbols on Charon's screen. Charon quickly locks his phone, darkening it and shoving it back into his pocket. He says nothing. From the corner of his eye, Adam swallows and shifts and looks at his hands, flushing red with embarrassment.

The car is moving. As it pulls out of the station, the light starts to disappear behind them, only now lit from the inside of the car. The small emergency lights dotting the walls speed by in a blur. The first stop is close. The only other passenger on the car gets out; the familiar voice of the metro follows, along with the beeping jingle, and the doors close.

He can feel Adam's body sag against his, his breathing evening out. When Charon looks over, he is asleep, forehead pressed to his bicep.

\---

Charon's finally dozing off to sleep on the couch when Willow walks out into the living room, flicking on the ceiling light. His head jerks upright with a snort.

"There's a smoothskin in your bed?"

It takes a moment before he has enough wits to reply. "What were you doing in my bedroom?" Charon keeps one eye closed, the other heavily squinting. Willow takes pity on him and turns the light off. The city lights peering through the open blinds seem to light the room well enough that she can walk around to the couch.

She smiles, "I was going to bum a cigarette." She perches herself on the armrest, sitting in between Charon's long legs hanging over the side. The couch groans in protest. He frowns at her. She's wearing one of her numerous Museum of Natural History shirts from work, a cartoon fossilized tyrannosaurus glowing faintly on the front.

Her eyebrows raise. Cigarettes, of course— Charon groggily pats around his chest, before realizing his jacket is on the floor, next to him. He swings an arm over and tosses his entire leather jacket at Willow. It hits her with a heavy fwump.

She knows where he keeps them. Willow pulls the pack of cigarettes from his left-hand pocket, draping the jacket over the back of the couch.

"Are you picking up tourists now?"

She’s not leaving; contrary, she’s palming around his jacket again for a lighter, not even feigning to move towards the window. They’re not supposed to smoke inside; their neighbor downstairs sometimes stops Charon in the hallway to complain about the smell, never to Willow, which means he’s the one who has to complain to her.

"No." Charon closes his eyes again. Willow nudges his calf with her big toe. He grunts. If he plays dumb, maybe she’ll go away. "It's a long story. Shouldn't you be getting ready for your shift?"

"I have time." She pauses, hands still roaming over the jacket, and coming up empty. "Lighter?"

Charon sighs so heavily he swears he sinks a foot into the couch. Blindly, he pats around again for the lighter, and then tosses that in her direction. He can hear it hit the multitude of rings she always wears on her fingers when she catches it, and not long after there is the sound of the lighter clicking. He can see the flame behind his eyelids. "Did you sleep with him?"

"No," Charon says, a little too loudly. He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't want to see Willow's expression. "His friends left him at the 9th Circle without any cash and a dead phone."

She’s flicking the lighter off and on, "Shit friends." She says.

Charon throws an arm over his face, trying to block out any residual light. "That's why I don't have any."

"Mmhmm," Willow hums, amused. "That won't make me leave, you know."

The clock will, though. Charon knows she can’t stay long; she has to get ready for work. Though, now that he thinks about it, that realization doesn’t actually make him happy. Their schedules rarely sync up. Sometimes Charon goes days at a time only speaking to Ahzrukhal and barking orders at drunks. "What a shame." Charon drawls.

Willow laughs; it's just bordering on too loud for how dark it still is outside. When Charon blindly extends his arm out, he feels the momentary warm press of Willow's fingers as she hands her cigarette to him. Patting his knee, Willow pushes herself off the couch and onto her feet. Charon takes a long drag of the cigarette, letting himself exhale entirely before raising his arm up blindly. She squeezes his hand twice, taking the cigarette with her when she leaves for the hallway bathroom. The sound of the taps running and the pipes shaking above finally lull him back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have the second chapter 99% done and will probably post in a week. (unless y’all really like it and leave comments then i will post early, YES, i am transparently asking for comments thank u) this will probably get updated when i need breaks from writing other things. sometimes the soul just needs a good modern au yknow? Tags will be updated as it goes on, but i do plan on folding in other characters and pairings from the other fallout games into this universe, not just fo3.


	2. the songs on the radio are okay

Adam wakes up early in the morning, dehydrated and disorientated. He's still wearing Butch's flannel. It smells— not like him. Which reminds him, he's not in his own dorm, let alone his own bed. It smells like cigarette smoke and another body, a little unpleasant in its unfamiliarity, and the faint scent of cheap laundry detergent. 

He knows he had fallen asleep in his pants, too, because even though they were stiff dark jeans, he felt uncomfortable not wearing them in someone else's bed. But it must have been too hot overnight, and he had kicked them off; he only realizes this when he swings his feet over the bed and his toes touch the jeans, cold from sitting overnight on the faux-wood laminate floors.

He lets his mind settle momentarily. The room is spartan; not in the minimalist way of glossy magazines, but from an obvious combined lack of funding and lack of care. Plain, blank walls, with no art, not even a mirror on them, though there is one shelf filled with frayed, old books that sits above an Ikea dresser. He runs his hand over the top of the comforter. The furniture is mismatched, though the sheets go together, if only because they are all in shades of grey, faded in spots from age and sweat and the pale orange-pink of misused bleach and cleaners. It feels weirdly intimate, especially the feeling of his bare thighs against someone else’s blankets; not the guest set, either, but something personal. 

Easing himself up to his feet brings Vaultie another fresh wave of dizziness. He has to lean against the wall to put on his pants; it's a slow, stumbling ordeal, but he manages, despite how uncomfortable the jeans feel when his body still feels soft and lazy with sleep, no matter how restless that sleep was. His socks from last night are balled up in the legs of his jeans, and he puts them back on, too. He checks his phone in the back pocket, but it doesn't turn on; there's no clock in the room, either, but that's a given. He doesn't really know anyone who has a clock other than their phone, anymore.

It takes Adam an embarrassingly long time to psych himself up to leave the bedroom. The thought of it makes him anxious, and he feels stupid for it; but really, he's in a stranger's home, and he must have taken up the entire bed. He did not drink so much as to not remember, but the moments between the metro ride and getting inside are hazy with sleep. He swears he insisted on taking the couch. But maybe, the bouncer had brought him into the room? He wishes he would have left him out there. Guilt is creeping fast up his throat.

Though he doesn't want to-- something, in his head, is telling him he can't leave this room, now, not after making such an ass of himself-- he forces his hand to the doorknob, even as his teeth chatter. Charon's living room is uncharacteristically warm, and smells like detergent and fresh laundry. It's bigger than his bedroom, but only because a kitchen is attached to it: kitchen being a generous word. It’s more of an afterthought to the blandly open layout. The wall is lined with a stove, a fridge, two counter tops, and a few squares of the wood pattern laminate had been replaced with kitchen laminate.

Charon is standing at the stove. He’s thankful that his back is turned to Adam. Maybe he can sneak out—

"Are you hungover?"

He startles. It literally stops him in his tracks, the sight of Charon. He can't stop staring at him. He's only wearing a wife beater; he can see the muscles of his shoulders move with the way it's cut as he putters around, between the stovetop and coffeemaker. He doesn’t want to say that he’s ripped, because that’s a term Butch likes to throw around about his own lean, muscled but boyish body. Charon has at least a foot on him and his hands make the spoon scooping out coffee look dainty. Adam wants to throw himself out the far window onto the street below, though he knows two stories will not do more than break his ankles.

"No. I only-- I only had a shot.” His voice sounds dry in his ears, and he clears his throat. “And a beer, last night."

"Are you hungover?" Charon repeats, not looking up from the small, old coffeemaker he is tapping on; though, his taps are just on the edge of harder smacking, insistent and rhythmic.

Adam feels his temple throb with each rattle. "A little." On the fourth one, it whirs oddly loud for such a small machine, almost eclipsing the sound of coffee sputtering into the mug below.

He finally turns around to look at Adam, leaning back against the counter. "You're up early," He says, "It's only seven."

Adam shrugs, feeling a bit hopeless. He has no explanation. He should be asleep, probably, but also not, because this isn't his home and he doesn't live here and he barely knows this ghoul other than his name. He's not sure how Charon knows he sleeps too much, anyway. Maybe because he knows he's a student. "I-- yeah. I guess that's. Weird."

Charon turns back around, reaching up into one of the cabinets. There goes those back muscles, again, and Adam's stare drops intently to the floor. "You drink coffee?"

"Uh. Mmn. With creamer, sorry." He apologizes ahead of time, because Charon doesn't strike him the type to have a jug of some candy-flavored sugar bomb in his fridge, but Charon moves to the fridge without a change of expression. He opens it with one hand, two empty mugs clinking together in his opposite.

He rummages through it. "Is pumpkin spice satisfactory?" He asks, pulling the container out. Adam nods, at first, and then vocalizes with a small, "Yes," when he realizes that Charon's back is still to him. He drags the jug out and sets it on the counter, along with the cups.

"My roommate drinks it black. Or with protein powder." He explains, unasked. Vaultie must have looked surprised. He scrubs a hand over his face. Charon pours coffee into one mug, than the other, leaving a thumbs width in the carafe that he puts back onto the warming plate. He gives each mug a generous splash of suspiciously orange creamer. 

He doesn't really seem ashamed of it. Butch always has something snide to say when he catches Vaultie in the coffee line at school, holding everyone up for his caffeinated milkshakes. Adam’s eyes widen, startled, as Charon wordlessly hands him a steaming mug. It's not as much creamer as he would usually like, but he takes it. He's not going to ask for more.

"Do you work out?" Adam blurts out. Immediately, he feels his soul trying to leave his corporal form, so he tries to take a big sip of coffee. The burn is instant; reactively, he spits it back into his cup.

When he looks up, Charon's face is blank, mostly. Maybe there's a smile there. It's very small; it could be a twitch at the corner of his lips, but he hides quickly behind the rim of his mug. The heat of the coffee doesn't seem to affect him as his throat works through a few large gulps of it. Vaultie's tongue still tingles.

"No. I get plenty of exercise bouncing." He clears his throat before taking another sip of his drink. Charon doesn't seem to blink often; or maybe, Adam isn't really used to people looking at him like this. Quietly sizing him up. "Did you text your friends?"

Adam shakes his head. "My phone's... dead."

Charon looks down as Adam pulls the phone out from his pocket. He frowns, "I don't have a cord for that."

"Oh."

“Hm.” Charon grunts. He takes another sip of his coffee. When he brings it down, Adam can see that he’s already nearly finished. He turns away, back to the counter, pouring himself more coffee. He doesn’t bother with the creamer, but he’s already going back to the cabinet to pull out the filters and canister of coffee grounds to start another pot. “I can drive you back.”

“You have a car?” He wonders if thats a weird question to ask. But they took the metro last night, they didn’t drive. 

“Yes.” Charon glances over his shoulder. “It’s parked about three blocks away.”

Adam doesn’t know how long that is. Actually— he doesn’t really know where he is, right now. Every time he thinks back on getting off the metro, the words of the station stop are blurred together. All he can really remember is the weight of his eyes, and the heat of Charon next to him, gently shuffling him up the steps of his brown stone.

Charon just heaps fresh grounds on top of the used ones in the machine. Adam watches him, quietly, moving back and forth between the sink to fill up the water reservoir and start the process again. When he finally glances over at Adam, his brow furrows.

“You can sit, you know.”

“Oh!” Adam startles. He looks over— yeah. Right, of course, a couch. He probably shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the living room like a weirdo. He sits down in the far corner, placing his mug down on the chipped coffee table; it wobbles underneath the weight of the mug. There’s no coaster, but something tells Adam Charon doesn’t own one. He immediately pulls his feet up onto the couch, tucking them close and keeping his feet underneath him; it’s occurring to him that he doesn’t know where his shoes are. They weren’t in the bedroom. 

Adam takes out his phone, belatedly remembering its lack of battery only after he’s slid the keyboard out and tried to pull up the texts on his Pip-Boy 3000. Nothing happens, of course— it’s dead. But he wishes it would turn on. He wishes he hadn’t gone out last night, and he wishes—

Adam’s eyes snap up as the couch dips under Charon’s weight. He doesn’t sit jammed into the opposite corner like him, but just a bit closer to the middle, wide legged. He carefully sets his refilled and steaming mug onto the coffee table.

He drops his phone into his lap. “Thank you,” Adam blurts out, wringing his hands in small, hopefully unnoticeable motions in his lap, hidden by the length of his legs. “You know... about last night.”

Charon frowns. “It’s nothing.” He glances away. He can tell he wants to say something, the way his brow’s furrowed. “Your friends usually leave you at bars without money?”

“No.” Adam swallows. “I mean— sometimes.”

“Hmn,” is Charon’s only reply. He sips at his coffee now, more careful than the earlier desperate chugging of caffeine. Adam digs his nails into his knuckles. Charon turns to look at him again. He has these piercing blue eyes. Adam leans over, grabbing his mug and taking a drink of his coffee, anything to do with his hands. This time it doesn’t burn him, at least. 

There’s a television in front of them, but Charon makes no move to turn it on, and Adam isn’t about to ask. They finish their coffees in relative silence. Charon finishes three cups of coffee in the time he finishes his first, finally taking his mug to the sink to rinse out. All that’s left in Adam’s cup is less than a thumb’s width of silty coffee and the last bits of creamer. He follows Charon’s lead, setting the mismatched mug down next to the sink. He moves to grab for the dishwasher, but his hand only finds cupboard handles instead of appliance latches. 

“You want to get going?”

Adam has the urge to offer to hand wash the cups, but after a beat staring at them, he turns away from the sink, bracing himself back against it. “Uh, yeah. Do you know where my shoes are, though?”

Charon does, and when he tells him doesn’t even sound half as annoyed as Adam knows he has the right to be. They’re at the front door, lined up nicely next to a pair of steel toed boots that absolutely dwarf his slip-ons. Those must be Charon’s. Still, he doesn’t really remember taking them off last night. Had he helped him toe them off before walking inside? The thought of that makes Adam’s ears feel hot.

As soon as Adam has straightened up from pulling on his shoes, Charon’s pushing a jacket into his arms. “Wear this.”

“What?” 

He’s already turned away to shrug on his own coats; first, a leather jacket that’s seen better days, flaking under his arms at the crease, and then a heavier, slightly puffy coat on top of that. Adam holds up the coat in his arms. It looks the warmer of the three.

“It is cold out.” Charon says, a matter of fact, and then adds, “My car’s heating takes a while to work.”

Adam doesn’t protest. He’s berating himself now for not going out in a coat, no matter what Butch had said about beer coats. The jacket is twice his size and swallows him up immediately. The sleeves are nearly as long as his fingertips. He zips himself up, right underneath to slightly past the chin. When Charon turns around, he stops, momentarily, looking him over once before turning away. 

“Ready?” Charon grabs a pair of keys hanging on the wall. 

Adam follows him out, pulling the door closed behind. His surroundings are vaguely familiar, but not because of last night. He’s been to this part of the city, before, but only in passing. The walk isn’t far, but it is cold. January had none of the charm of December and was twice as biting. The only positive was that this winter had been a dry one. There hasn’t been any snow this year, not yet. January meant there was a possibility they could still drag their way out of winter without one storm. D.C. had previous snowless winters, though there was usually at least one storm per year that always took the entire city by surprise, as if snow itself was an entirely foreign new concept. Adam was hoping for the former; snow meant ice, and cold. Winter had never been a kind season to him.

He’s not paying attention to where he’s walking, because Charon stops and Adam walks straight into his back, bumping off of him like a fly against a window pane. Charon arches a brow at him, stepping off the sidewalk and circling the car parked curbside. Charon’s car is a beater, a decade-old Chryslus Highwayman that looks like it would break down if driven any further than city limits, to be left abandoned on the side of I95. 

The outside is dingy but not overly so, just scratches across the paint, nothing too obvious like rust or indents. But, Charon has to get in on the drivers side and lean over the center shift-stick to open up the passenger side door; the handle in Adam’s hands is limp, unusable. The inside, though, surprisingly, is not just neat but meticulously clean, and Adam can spy microfiber rags tucked into the back seat door pocket when he gets in on the passenger side. 

Their seatbelts click into place, one after the other. “Do you know how to get back?” Charon asks, glancing at Vaultie momentarily before setting his sights on backing the car up. 

The gears creak every time he turns the wheel more than a quarter of the way. Adam feels his stomach clench. Charon turns around, swinging his arm to the back of Adam’s headrest as he backs up, slowly. The car ahead of him is parked too close. It has one of those bumper barricades hanging off the back that the nose of Charon’s car nearly touches when he inches forward. 

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” Charon prompts as he finally pulls his car out into the street. Adam took too long to respond. Heat crawls into his face.

“Sorry. S-sorry. No, you’re uh— I mean, no, you’re right, or, you’re right— it is, no. I don’t know.” And he doesn’t have his phone on, so he has no GPS to guide them back. He feels completely useless. “I uh. I have the address?”

Charon grunts.

“It’s uhm, 8901 Vault-Tec Lane.”

“Ah.” The briefest smile graces Charon’s face, but it’s not entirely genuine. “Vault-Tec University. They have half the city in their pocket.” He pauses, briefly. “What’s your father? A politician?”

“Doctor.” He mumbles, chagrined. “Amata’s dad is a senator, though.” Butch got in on scholarship. He wouldn’t have ever even made it in if him and Amata hadn’t helped him with his essays. 

“And is that what you are studying for?” Charon almost sounds bored, his voice is so flat. “Or, you are a freshman. I am sure you are undecided.”

“I, uh, I-I don’t know. I guess you’re right. In the, official sense.” Adam stares out the window, elbow against the door propping his head up. “Uh. I think I’d like to do something to uhm, help other people. M-maybe social work. Or, uh, speech pathology.”

He glances over at Charon. Charon looks back, eyebrows raised, before he turns back to the road. Adam smiles, bites his lip, and tries to quash the nervous giggle bubbling up under his fingers that are splaying over his face and mouth. “Yeah, I uh. Know.”

Charon’s smile is very slight and lopsided, but he doesn’t say anything, his attention on the road.

Adam wishes he knew more of the city. He’s not familiar enough with it, yet. Him— and Butch, and Amata, all grew up outside city limits, Silver Spring and Columbia and Glen Bernie. Everything looks familiar but only in the vaguest way, buildings blending together along the streets as they pass by. Charon is a good driver. Or, at least, he’s not as bad as some of the other drivers in the city. He doesn’t make sudden stops and he’s careful at lights. 

The buildings are blurring together, so Adam turns inward to the car, “So, you work at 9th Circle, and live in Lanier Heights...?”

“Yes.” Says Charon.

“Uh.” Adam flounders. “Sorry about. You’re uh. Last night? The jacket? From Butch’s beer? That’s... is it ok? I can... get you back for that?”

“No need.”

Adam swallows. “W-well. If you’re sure. I really appreciate you bringing me back.“

Charon is frowning at the road. He hasn’t attempted to glance at Adam once. “It’s fine.”

“N-no, I mean. Seriously, especially for, uhm. Taking me home, and all. And not making me walk home by myself.” Maybe he should stop speaking. But Adam’s always been poor at being indebted to someone. If anything, he’d rather it be the other way around. Being helpful usually, sometimes, meant people would be something other than mean. It worked, eventually; it only took Butch until the end of eighth grade to stop beating him. “Maybe next time, when we’re all at 9th Circle, I can, uh— I, um, really owe you one—“

“Listen,” Charon interrupts, curt, and his hands clutch the wheel, twisting the flaking leather under his grasp, “The bar could have gotten in a lot of trouble if something had happened to you walking home. I didn’t do it out of the goodness of my heart.”

Adam’s mouth snaps shut. He has to dig his teeth into his bottom lip for just a moment, a sharp point into the soft skin of his mouth. Embarrassment curls hot in his gut. Adam doesn’t understand the reaction. He never usually does.

“I’ll drop you off. There’s no need to thank me.” Charon reiterates, eyes on the road, but his voice is a little softer this time. Adam watches his fingers as he turns the wheel with one hand. Adam nods. He doesn’t want his voice to betray hm. 

Adam looks out the window. His phone is dead, so he needs something else to keep himself busy, so he doesn’t want to crawl out of the window instead of sitting in this dead silence. He pulls out his wallet, double checking that he still had everything. His dorm key is still tucked into the small change pocket, and real ID is still in there, along with his college ID and the fake. He pulls it out, turning the mangled piece of plastic over in his hand.

“... your boss seems almost as bad as my friends.” He mutters, just quiet enough that Charon can easily ignore him, twisting the ID in his hands. 

Charon chuckles and it actually startles Adam, his shoulders twitching upward. His face goes somber right after so quickly, it almost makes him think the momentary mirth was imagined. “He is much worse.” No, wait— he is smiling, just slightly, his milky blue eyes momentarily shifting to look at Adam. “Though I cannot entirely apologize for the ID. You are underage. I would have taken it—” His face flashes again, this time with annoyance, biting his tongue. “If that was a thing the 9th Circle did.”

Adam ventures, hesitant, “I didn’t... know you guys, uh, took IDs.”

Charon exhales mirthlessly out of his nasal cavity. “We do not.”

He can’t argue, either way. “I wasn’t, uh, the one to pick doing that. Doing, uh, going out, to drink. A bar.”

“I can tell you do not drink.” 

Adam presses his face to the window. “Is that bad?”

Charon seems to pause, humming thoughtfully. “No.” He admits. “Not really. Though, others will tell you otherwise.”

“Well. You’re probably better at drinking than me.”

“I know I am better than you.”

Adam finds himself smiling. “Uhm, You’re also. You know, at least two feet taller than me.”

Charon snorts. “Two is a stretch.” It’s not, though. He’s probably a foot and a half taller than him. Adam is only 5’3. 

At the next light, Charon reaches over and turns on the radio. 

“A uh, special news report from Diamond City radio! Travis, here, and we uh, have a news update here, out on the Canadian front—“

“Hi, caller. This is the 188.8AM, and you’re speaking with the Forecaster. We’re here with a special guest, Bloomseer Poplar, to help you with life’s greatest mysteries. But, just as a reminder, if you want a specialized reading from us or one of our certified Psykers on the line, pick up your phones and dial—“

Charon switches the station again, finding one mid-song; its something by the Beatles, the name of which Adam can’t place. Charon drums his fingers over the dial, momentarily, before returning them to the steering wheel. He holds it with both hands at ten and two, very straight-backed and proper. The only error in his perfect form is his fingers drumming idly against the wheel, slightly off-beat to the song.

The car’s heat suddenly kicks in, whirring into motion loudly. He’s suddenly too hot, and Adam is fumbling with the high zipper of the coat. Adam’s eyes shift up, catching a glimpse of Charon’s own stare; Charon holds his gaze for just a split longer than he should, when he should be concentrating on the road. Adam catches his own fingers beating against the door, drumming against the faux-wood veneer panels. 

Their surroundings are getting more and more familiar. They turn a street and suddenly, Adam knows where he is; though, belatedly, he realizes they’re so close, Charon probably won’t need any help finding the rest of the way. He really needs to make it a priority to learn his way around better.

Still, he mumbles a gentle, “Turn here,” and Charon follows the direction without question. One more turn and he can see the sign for Vault-Tec Academy and the science building on the corner.

“You’ll have to direct me to your dorms.”

“Oh, no,” Adam shakes his head, “No, it’s okay. You can drop me off near— I mean. Anywhere around here.”

“It would be easier, for me, if there were a drop-off location. Instead of pulling over at the side of the road.” 

Charon flicks on his turn signal, turning into one of the inner roads leading further into campus. Adam chews on his lip. “This is fine, then...” Through here, and it would lead to a small roundabout that encircled the mascot Vault Boy statue, near the main administrative building. Plenty of people get picked up and dropped off there.

“Up here,” Adam gestures, “At the, uh, circle, wherever you can pull over is fine.”

Charon doesn’t nudge his sedan into the parking lane until he’s midway through the circle. He’s certainly not half-assing his taxi duties. Most car shares drop him off the side of the road before he can fully scramble out the doors. This almost feels like door to door service for Adam. He puts his Chryslus into park.

Charon unlocks the car. Adam steps out, and the biting cold hits him right away, sending a shiver through his body. He tries to push the door closed, but ends up shutting it too softly behind him; he tries to open the door again, and the passenger side door handle moves limply in his grasp. He can see but not hear Charon sighing behind the glass, and the window starts to lower as he leans over and opens the passenger door; Adam closes it properly this time. Charon leans out of the window. “Look.” He has Adam’s attention, but suddenly his firm frown is wavering, eyes shifting away. “You shouldn’t be going to the 9th Circle. None of you should. Just drink in your rooms.”

It feels like a weirdly finite thing to say. A very adult thing to say, but of course, he’s just a bouncer at some random college bar. Adam finds himself fidgeting with the long ends of his coat. “I’ll, uh, bring that up. At the next student government meeting.” Adam says. Charon shakes his head. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he’s turning the car’s engine back on.

“Just consider it. At least, don’t go with people who’ll leave you.” 

Scuffing his shoes against the curb, Adam finds words catching in his throat. “Thanks again,” is all he finally manages. Adam turns away, Charon’s engine jumping as he shifts gears. He pauses, glancing back and waving. 

He keeps walking, watching from the corner of his eye as Charon pulls around and away from the circle, back towards the main road. He’s not far from his dorm, and it feels good to be back home, in a sense. He shoves his hands in his pockets. His knuckles crinkle as they hit some sort of packaging, a box— and when he pulls the half-empty pack of cigarettes out, he’s rendered so momentarily dumbstruck he stops right in the middle of the walkway, parting a sea of students walking to and from. 

These aren’t his cigarettes.

This isn’t his jacket.

Adam huffs, shoving the cigarettes back into his pocket and looking up at the grey sky. Charon’s long gone by now. Nobody else seems to be noticing him, even as he directly blocks their way. He hesitates before he starts to walk again, towards the direction of his dorm.

—

Charon can always hear Ahzrukhal before he fully enters. He’s always talking two octaves too loud on a cell phone, and he never enters without one of his cellphones to his ear, too seemingly important to enter normally. Today, especially, he sounds loud, not only his voice but the commotion he’s making as he tries to shoulder open the staff door. The door slams hard against the far wall; the large box in his arms is unwieldy, especially as he’s holding his cellphone with his shoulder. Charon nearly drops his mop in the rush to Ahzrukhal’s side. The glare Ahzrukhal levels at him as he thrusts the box into his arms tells him it was still not fast enough.

“Of course, of course. Look, I just got in to the 9th Circle, mind if I call you back?” He speaks into the phone, jabbing his finger wordlessly to where he wants Charon to place the box. It’s surprisingly heavy for something Ahzrukhal willingly carried from the alleyway. Charon places the box onto the bar. When he turns around, Ahzrukhal is folding his phone into the pocket of his plaid sports coat.

“Charon! My boy.” He smiles, glancing around the bar. In the light of the day, it’s drab and filthy, barebones and well-worn. Cleaning was strictly surface area; they did not have the time and Ahzrukhal did not want to pay anyone to go much deeper than that. Charon can hear his footsteps clinging to the sticky floor. “You must be faster next time in helping me. You know I don’t pay you to stand around.”

Charon exhales, instead of saying what he wants to. He doesn’t want to bicker, not now. Rent’s coming due next week and he barely has the money for his half. “Of course.”

Ahzrukhal frowns, brushing by him to walk behind the bar. He grabs the knife used for cutting fruit and slides it across the taped seal on top of the box. “I have good news, though. I know winter is slow, this one, especially, but I have a special for next week.” Charon takes his mop in hand once more, dipping it into the murky water and pulling it out to splat wetly against the floor. “I’m hoping to have it absolutely packed on Wednesday with these.”

He opens the box, so that the cardboard flaps cover what’s inside. Charon can’t see it from where he is. Ahzrukhal is waiting. He bites his tongue. “What?”

"Cat night." Ahzrukhal clarifies. In any context, those two words together sound mildly threatening, but they bubble up like hot tar in Ahzrukhal’s throat.

Charon wants to reply, "So?", but instead he bites the tip of his tongue and just watches Ahzrukhal, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Ahzrukhal smiles. "Half price if you're dressed as a cat."

"Great." Charon says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He finally holds them up. A pair of cheap plastic black cat ears.

"I'll need you inside. I have a feeling it's going to be..." He pauses to catch his breath, words rattling in his chest. "Busy." Charon is trying to keep his face calm. It’s not the right response, though, because he can see the way Ahzrukhal’s brow is creasing, his upper lip curling in annoyance. He tosses the headband, pointedly, towards Charon; this time, he does drop his mop, barely catching the headpiece Ahzrukhal frisbees at his head. "For you."

The mop handle clatters loudly to the ground, bouncing off the laminate. Charon’s grip is so tight the cheap plastic should be cracking in his hand. He feels his heart in his ears. "You want me to wear these." He had been expecting it, of course. He doesn't know why he bothers to ask. The headband bends.

Ahzrukhal smiles. "Oh, don't worry. I've already docked your pay for them."

Charon stops bending the plastic, letting it spring back into it’s half-circle form. It's not unusual for Ahzrukhal to dock his pay for random slights and reimbursements. He's had to pay for stools broken in fights; he has never had his black eyes or bruised ribs paid for. There's nothing he can do about it, not when Ahzrukhal has his passport in the back room floor safe. So he just takes the ears, and hooks one end into the pocket of his jacket. When he looks across the room at Ahzrukhal, he’s smiling.

Charon looks away. He can hear Ahzrukhal’s smile, the way he wheezes through his teeth. “Now pick that up.” Charon glances up again, at Ahzrukhal’s eyes shifting towards the mop, and he bends down to right it. One side of the plastic handle is cool and slick from the wet floor, and Charon has to wipe the residual cleaning fluid off on a bar rag hanging from his front pocket. “I want this place clean for tonight.”

Charon feels the anger festering in his gut, like a sore, like his own stomach acids are eating him up alive.

Only after Ahzrukhal has grabbed the box once more and taken it into the back manager’s office does Charon realize it had been too heavy just for an assortment of plastic cat ears. Charon can hear the lock from the bar clicking as soon as the door closes behind Ahzrukhal. It’s better if he doesn’t think about it. 

He’s here until two, and then off again until he needs to come back at nine, where he’ll be staying until closing time. Maybe longer, if that new bartender— he keeps forgetting it’s not Gob, but the new one, Leo Stahl— is pissed at him for making him clean up by himself last time. He’d deserve it, if he was. It was stupid of him to do, last night. He should have left the kid on the corner to figure out his own way home. He had no responsibility for him.

He cleans for another thirty minutes before the office door opens. Ahzrukhal has a stack of paper in his arms. Charon empties his hands of the dish rag before he walks by; Ahzrukhal never gives, he thrusts or throws something and expects the receiver to scramble to catch it, or grovel on the ground to pick it up. He’s been here at this bar for too long, because these actions are becoming second nature. They’re good hunches, though; he catches the ream of paper before it hits the moist bar.

“Hang these,” Ahzrukhal wheezes. The fliers are on red paper, the 9th Circle logo imprinted in crisp black at the top. A gradient black cat slinks across the middle, with what he assumes are all of the details of cat night underneath.

Ahzrukhal doesn’t dignify Charon with a goodbye. He slinks past him as soon as the fliers are out of his hand, briefly checking a phone that he’s pulled from his pocket. It’s different than the one he walked in with. “Lock up.” He barks as the door closes behind him. It’s part reminder, part threat.

Charon stows the cleaning supplies away, and gives the bar one last look over before he starts to lock up. It’s as clean as it’s going to get, and it doesn’t matter, besides; most who come in are too drunk to really care. They’ll talk about it later in stories and social media posts, the grimy bar they all pack themselves into. As clean as Ahzrukhal pretends to want it, he also knows it doesn’t actually matter. Maybe in some ways, it adds to the appeal, all of these buttoned-up kids coming into a part of town where they could drink in public until they couldn’t remember. 

He locks the front door from the inside and leaves out the back emergency exit, locking that one behind and putting his keys safely into his pocket. The biting outside wind keeps his fingers from steadying; it takes him two tries before he can slot the key into handle lock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for comments and I got them?? completely wild and. I love all of you. I’ll 100% admit i’m rusty in regards to DC but i think any hesitation on where i should put charon’s House would only be noticed by other people who live in the DMV.... as usual, find me on tumblr @civilization-illstayrighthere. Thanks again for reading


	3. youre alive; you have a soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam, Butch and Amata plan how to get Adam another fake; Ahzrukhal has midday visitors

“Wow, they really tore your ass apart, huh?”

Amata frowns, leaning over Adam to smack Butch’s shoulder, firm enough to show him she meant it. “Butch! Really?”

Adam knows he says things like that to get a rise out of him, and still, it works, making his stomach slightly queasy at the violence of the words, too harsh for a Monday afternoon. Amata settles back behind him, combing her fingers through his hair, patiently untangling it. He can feel her huff against the back of his neck. “It’s just an ID. I’m sure... we can just tape it.”

Adam frowns, his head leaning back with her hands as she snags a particularly stuck knot. He buries his fingers into the dark shag rug underneath them. “It’s pretty, uh, bad.”

She knows. They all know. It’s lying between the three of them sitting in a circle on the floor, like a dead offering in a seance. Though the wrap on top of the ID, where the picture and information has stayed together, the actual plastic backing has cracked in half and nearly completely pulled away. It’s irreparable.

Butch grins, leaning back against the side of the bare, unmade bed. Adam’s dorm room is still demarcated in two, though his previous roommate was expelled at the end of the first semester. He keeps expecting the university to tell him he’s going to have someone new move in, so he doesn’t touch the other furniture. He knows they probably wont bother, unless a sudden transfer comes in. It’s functionally a single, now, until the end of the year. That leaves his room as the one everyone meets up in, the three of them— possibly more, one day, though Adam knows he doesn’t have the friends or personality to host his own party, or even the real want to, besides daydreams of people coming over and pretending to be his friend. Aside from the bare mattress and empty desk on one side, his side is fully furnished. It’s very tidy, a small metal cart filled with snacks next to the microwave his roommate had left behind, his appliances and organizational things in muted, grey tones. But the walls are plastered in posters— still neatly hung, with colorful tape on the edges, over every inch of his side of the walls, save the corner with a mirror. At one point, he thought the RA was going to try and make him take some things down, as it was definitely not up to fire safety code.

“Yeah, nosebleed, there’s no chance anywhere will let you in with this.” Butch gestures at the ID, but does not touch it, “Maybe you can buy booze down at the deli, but an actual bar?”

An actual bar, no. And it took him so long to get a fake in the first place. Amata and Butch have had theirs since high school.

“So,” Adam can feel his voice warbling in his throat before he hears it, “I’ll need to get another one? A new one?”

Amata sighs behind the back of his ear. Butch is the one to respond, though. “Yeah, you do.” He’s already sounding bored of the conversation, pulling out his phone and swiping through it. The conversation lulls, momentarily, with Butch on his phone and Amata concentrating on twisting Adam’s hair. Sometimes, his dorm room still feels too small when the three of them all sit here, even though half of it is empty. 

Amata’s fingers tug too hard at a knot, catching in her nails, making Adam flinch. “What about that website last time...? Uh. Wh-wherever you got it?” He asks.

Butch barely glances up from his phone. “Nah, that Chinese website I mail ordered? Shut down. They don’t ever stay up long.” His eyes fall back to his phone, “And I don’t know anywhere else right now.”

Amata has started to braid his hair into small sections, a simple braid. It’s not really long enough for anything permanent or large, and she doesn’t have elastics, but its the familiar motion of it, going from section to section. She’s done this to his hair for years, as soon as James didn’t force him to cut it, and he grew it all of the way down to his shoulders. “It’s not a big deal. You don’t even drink that much, besides.”

“I don’t.” Adam mumbles, leaning back into her touch.

“Yeah, but you wanna go through, what,” Butch counts, “Three and a half years left without it? You ain’t gonna turn twenty one until senior year.”

Adam sighs, closed-mouth. Amata’s hands are reaching the end of his hair. “I... I don’t think I’m going to be going out, not soon, besides..” Trying to avoid Butch’s eyes, he finds himself staring at a straight pile of textbooks at his desk, reading the titles on the spines in his head.

“What? Are you serious? The bouncer wasn’t an axe murderer, or anything.”

“He was actually really nice,” Adam rushes to the defensive, “H-he didn’t... I mean, he didn’t have to let me sleep over. He could have left me there.”

Amata’s hands still, and he feels a pang of guilt knowing that he’s just brought the other night up, even inadvertently. He hadn’t been the one to bring it up, the shame of the only two friends he has having left him a little too sharp, made him a little too tender. He would have forgiven them both, even if they never spoke of it; but Amata had worried and apologized of her own accord, having left him twenty texts and two voicemails that popped up onto his phone as soon as it had charged itself enough to turn on. Butch hasn’t said a word. “I know, Adam— I’m— we’re—“ He can hear the glare in Amata’s voice that she’s clearly leveling over his shoulder towards Butch, but Butch is looking anywhere but at the two of them. “Sorry. Really sorry for leaving you there. I’m glad everything turned out okay, but that could have been really dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Butch agrees. When Adam looks at Butch, his face hardens, “Good going almost getting yourself killed, poindexter.”

He can hear Amata inhale, sharp and annoyed through her nose. “He was nice.” Adam reiterates again. And he means it. “I actually have to return his jacket—“

“Why do you have his jacket?” Butch asks, accusatory.

Adam shrinks back. “N-not... nothing weird. I didn’t go out in one.” Butch squints at him. “Remember? So he let me, uh, borrow one of his...” His eyes are searching, away from Butch, to try and find where he’s put it. He points to the dark wool coat hanging on top of the full hook attached to the back of his door. He should have returned it that day, or maybe Sunday, but he doesn’t know the bouncer’s home address and a part of him still feels a little wary to rush back to the 9th Circle so soon after being humiliated. “One of his coats, since it was cold. I forgot to hand it back, when he dropped me off.”

“At your dorm?” Butch asks, glancing around like a feral is going to jump out from behind the spare dresser.

“That is dangerous, if he knows where you live.” Amata adds, gently, in that mildly maternal tone of hers that Adam only hates when she uses it while agreeing with Butch, her fingers starting to soothe through his hair again.

“He doesn’t. H-he dropped me off— over there, the circle.” He says, “And, if you don’t trust the bar that much, why did we even go there?”

“That’s the point. I don’t trust that place, it reeks and it’s gross.” Butch says, finally putting his phone down, “But, at least, most of us can get in... that’s why I don’t get so drunk I get my ID cracked in half by some zombie asshole.”

Adam feels his stomach doing those flips again, and he scratches a little hard at his arm, his nails making red marks across his skin. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t even drunk.”

Butch rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure.”

“I wasn’t. You—“

“I believe you, Adam.” Amata interrupts, glaring over at Butch. “Would you lay off him? What is this, middle school?”

Butch closes his mouth, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Besides,” Amata is gathering up all of the loose braids, starting to undo them slightly with her fingers. Most of the ones she started with have already come undone, having nothing to keep them twisted together. She starts gathering his hair into her fist, careful not to pull the hair too tight. No matter how many times she does it, Adam’s always been tender scalped. “We both know we were the drunk ones.” He feels the twist of her wrist and then a light snap of an elastic going around his hair as she puts it up into a simple mid-height bun. She finally leans forward, now in Adam’s view. Her eyes are earnest on her round face, brow creased. “I mean it, I am really sorry.”

Adam flashes Amata a shy smile “I know. I’m not— I’m definitely not angry.” He assures. Amata smiles back, warm. He really isn’t mad; he’s never held Amata at arm’s length for long. She’s been his only friend. It always feels wrong, not being able to talk to her.

“Well,” Butch’s offhanded drawl breaks up the moment, “if you don’t get another ID, maybe your dad could just purify some water into wine for you.”

Adam frowns, managing to muster up sort of a glare at Butch. “It’s— no. He’s not Jesus.” He mutters, “I-it’s a water purification— it’s not even working, yet.”

He avoids Amata’s eyes. She always gives him that look, when dads come up, and he’s not in the mood to think about it. Butch doesn’t understand; his dad had left his mom when they were young, and the very fact they had theirs, no matter how bad they were, was apparently better in Butch’s eyes than not having a dad at all. Amata and Adam had spent the majority of their lives together, shuffled between strenuous classes and after-school latchkey programs, mostly to get out of their respective fathers’ hair. Right now, Amata’s father was fully in the swing of campaigning again for reelection as the republican senator representing Maryland; it felt weird, seeing his face in commercials and on lawns so often, while he was so elusive in real life. Adam never liked Almodovar. The man was perpetually short with him, and intolerant of polite conversation when it wasn’t a means to an end or a personal interest. Some people seemed to hate Adam on sight; he’s gotten used to it over the years, in some ways, expected.

Except, speaking of working— “Oh,” He starts. But Butch and Amata have already moved on by the time he’s come back from his thought process. They’re mid-conversation about some new show, names that Adam doesn’t know— “I have to go to the biology department in half an hour.” Adam says, quietly, though he’s not sure if they’re actually listening.

Amata is, though, and she whips her head over to stare at him. “Wait, but that means—“ She’s glancing around the room, just for a moment, even though she knows there’s no wall clocks in here. “It’s 2:30?”

Staring at his phone, Butch can instantly answer, “Yep.”

“Oh, shoot,” She swears gently, double checking the watch on her wrist, and then pulling out her phone from her purse sitting at her side and checking the time there for good measure. “You’re right. I might have to run or I’ll be late.”

Amata stands to her feet, and Adam follows, even though it mostly just puts him in her way as she goes to grab her backpack from where it had been thrown underneath his dorm window. “Don’t run,” Staying seated, Butch clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, watching her. “That’s lame.”

Amata slings her backpack over her shoulder with a frown. “Failing because you miss mandatory class participation is even lamer, Butch.” She quips back, checking her phone for the time once more as she walks towards the door.

Adam follows her towards the doorway, holding the door against the wall when she swings it open. “Text me, when class is over?”

“I will. But.” Amata pauses, moving her phone from hand to hand with anxious energy, ready to bolt to class. “Don’t sweat the ID thing. It’s not a big deal.” She looks over Adam’s shoulder, most definitely at Butch, who Adam is only now realizing is still sitting on his floor. “Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Butch says, behind him. She barely waits for his response, though, raising one hand and blurting off a “bye” before Butch is even done pretending to agree. Adam just raises a hand in goodbye, though its slow enough he’s not even sure if Amata saw it.

Adam lets out a little sigh. He turns, leaning against the open door. Butch is still sitting there, on his phone; he hasn’t even pretended to move, not even an attempt to make it look like he had the intention of doing so. It’s strange, because while they didn’t fight anymore, and could get along on occasion their tentative friendship, or whatever it was, was completely tethered to Amata. They did not exist as a pair; they only ever interacted when it was the three of them.

But Butch doesn’t look up from his phone, and Adam feels himself squirm a little. There’s no excuse to kick him out, and he’s not a good enough liar to think of any pressing matter he can fib about needing to attend. He’s not even passive aggressive enough to keep standing there with the door open, so he takes a step forward and lets it swing close behind him.

“I could get you another ID.” Butch says, as soon as the door audibly clicks shut.

Adam frowns, holding onto his elbows. He’s not sure why Butch is bringing this up now, and now when he asked about the previous website. He doesn’t move to sit back down, standing with his back to the painted brick wall. “I, uhm,” Butch looks up at him, and Adam has to look away from his blue eyes, “I mean— I’d appreciate it. If- if you could.”

Butch puts his phone away. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up, resting his elbows on his kneecaps. “Look, you know Sole Park?”

“Uh.” Adam clears his throat, “Maybe?” No, the name is familiar; he’s pretty sure that’s the Junior in his Intro Philosophy class.

“He’s middie —“ Butch gives Adam a depreciating look, even though he’s always been too self-professedly cool to participate in any organized sport, “You know, midfielder, our lacrosse team, the sport with the sticks—“

Adam hurries to nod. “Y-yeah.“ The guy in class in big, he’s pretty sure that’s him. He assumes everyone over a certain stature probably plays a sport. He does cardio, and Amata has dragged him to some classes that were fun, but competitive sports made Adam too anxious to function. 

“Anyway,” Butch draws out the word slow, holding out his hand as he gestures through the names he starts to list, “Freddie hooked up with Sierra last weekend and she’s roommates with Sarah and Sarah is friends with Nora. You know, the RA on Amata’s floor? Well, before Nora and Sole broke up, she got her ID through Sarah who got hers through Sole. He has connections.”

Adam finally peels himself off the wall, sitting back down across from Butch. “Con—“ He has to do a double-take, trying to pair all the names Butch is saying to faces in his head. It feels like a game of Guess Who? that he’s definitely losing. He knows Sarah Lyons, from highschool, who was a grade above them all, but everyone else is a stranger. “Connections?”

“Yeah, I heard he has a printer in his closet.” Butch is talking as if he knows him, personally and well, though Adam’s sure he’s never talked to him before in his life. “And he knows the guy who owns that liquor store over in Park Plaza, so he can get kegs.”

Adam doesn’t want a whole keg. He barely wants an ID, but he also knows being left in his dorm while Amata and Butch go out will also grow lonely fast.

Butch raises his eyebrows, “I’ll ask Freddie, see if he can, you know, ask Sierra to talk with Sole, and all that,” He waves his hand, “See if we can get an ID from him.”

The chain of command from Freddie’s one-night stand to a shiny new fake sounds tenuous, but Adam doesn’t really have any other choice. It’s silly, but a part of him thinks Butch can do it, even though it sounds impossible; Butch seemed like that type of guy, right? The kind to be able to procure IDs out of thin air? The always mildly threatening persona he had lended well to it. “Alright.” Adam sighs, “W-well. Awesome.” He nods, gives Butch a lopsided smile. Maybe he’s just convincing himself.

For a moment, Butch’s expression turns soft, and he looks away. “Yeah, whatever. We’ll see. Have the money for me and I’ll see what I can work out.”

“How much?”

Butch seems taken aback at the question, like he hadn’t expected what Adam thought was a pretty logical follow-up. “I don’t fuckin’ know. Whatever it was last time.” He exhales. “Eighty or something,” He’s suddenly standing.Adam stays seated, pressing himself back against the side of the bed as Butch steps over him to grab his backpack from the ground. He nearly whips Adam with it when he shrugs it on. “Look, I should get going, too.” Butch says. Adam watches him step on his ID as he crosses the floor.

Adam opens his mouth, but then closes it. Something— he did something wrong, maybe, but Butch is at the door, and he pulls it open. “There’s no guarantee, or anything. We’ll, uh, see.” He says it as it’s closing, so his last words are barely heard over the loud sound of the door falling shut: “See you.”

The force of it knocks half of the coats off of the door hook into a heap on the ground. He sighs to the empty room. It takes Adam too long to stand and pick them up; he feels exhausted suddenly, drained, the thought of having to go to his work-study job excruciating. He bends down and gathers them all up, though it’s hard juggling them all. The pile’s so big he can’t successfully heft them all up together, continuously on the verge of dropping them all. So in a silly, dramatic way, he tries to throw them up on the hook. They fall right back on top of him, covering his head. He sighs. It takes him longer to get out from under the coats than it should.

—

The front door of the 9th Circle opens, letting in a windy burst of frigid late afternoon air that reaches Charon all the way behind the bar. It surprises him more than it should, but Ahzrukhal is in his office, and there are two sets of footsteps coming down the hall. They don’t serve food; the bar opens at five at the earliest, and it’s not even four. Charon can feel stress tensing across his shoulders. “We’re closed.”

“We have business with Ahzrukhal.”

It’s a ghoul’s voice that replies, just a moment before they step into view; what he says is true, they’re both ghouls, which only minimally puts him at ease. This is abnormal for Ahzrukhal. He usually does his deals at night, when everyone else is busy, and can keep their nose clear of his business.

Charon doesn’t put down the glass in his hands, or the dirty rag that he’s running around the rim. “Yeah?”

He’s purposefully acting brusque, but the slimmer one with the thick, trendy glasses just smiles, “Murphy.” He gestures to the other. “And this is Barrett. For our three o’clock meeting.”

Murphy has bangs plastered to his forehead that they nearly touch the rims of the large glasses on his face. When he turns his head to look at Barrett, he has to push the glasses up, as Charon can see he’s not wearing any tape and the nubs of his ears barely do anything to keep them on his face. He’s lean and alert, but nothing Charon couldn’t handle. Barrett, however— Barrett is almost as tall as Charon, towering head and shoulders over Murphy, his t-shirt taut over his chest. He’s carrying a mid-sized duffel bag in his arms, and he does not smile or say anything in response to Murphy’s introduction.

If they actually are expected, Charon can guess why Ahzrukhal would want him nearby and unoccupied with customers. He has height, and can bluster, but a man of Barrett’s stature would beat him to a pulp. He’s neither Ahzrukhal’s secretary nor his personal bodyguard. The thought that Ahzrukhal would purposefully and actively mislead him at this level— the thought makes him put the highball glass in his hands down a little too hard against the bar mat.

“I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Great.” Murphy says, a little too fast. His eyes are wandering around. There’s nowhere except the bar that has seats, and Charon is not going to offer them, besides. They can sit on their own accord, or stand uneasily in the entryway.

Charon steps out from behind the bar, wiping his hands off on the front of his jeans as he walks down the side hall. Past the bathrooms and at the end is the manager’s office, right next to the back exit. It’s dark down here, save for the green light of the EXIT sign hanging above his head and the light coming from under the doors. He knocks. “Ahzrukhal.”

“Charon,” His voice is muffled, “What is it?”

Charon opens the door. He won’t speak through it. Ahzrukhal has the nerve to look annoyed sitting at his desk, his hand at the edge of his computer monitor, as if a child hiding the screen from his parents. Charon could not care less about what Ahzrukhal does back here.

“You have visitors.” Ahzrukhal’s pinched face suddenly relaxes as Charon speaks. “Two ghouls. Murphy and Barrett.”

“Murphy, Murphy, yes.” Ahzrukhal mutters momentarily, typing in a one-handed flurry before pressing a button on the screen. He turns his focus back to Charon, smiling predatorily fond. Charon feels it in his voice, that he’s being praised for coming back here and alerting him of strangers like a well-trained dog. “I appreciate you coming to tell me. Would you be a dear and bring them in?”

Charon wants to shove his fist down his throat. Instead, he bites his tongue. “Of course.”

He pulls the door behind him when he leaves, but he doesn’t hear it click fully closed. Exiting the hall, Murphy and Barrett haven’t moved an inch from where he left them.

“Follow me.” He doesn’t stop fully, gesturing at them both and turning away back down the hall.

He doesn’t knock before entering this time, either, but Ahzrukhal has prepared himself. It wouldn’t have surprised Charon if Ahzrukhal had licked his thumb and slicked that especially long cowlick of his back against his forehead in the time he had took to bring them in, adjust the papers on the desk, look a little more presentable. He was always into his own appearance, even if he peddled watered down drinks in a dirty bar as his most visible source of income. The desk and chair he is sitting in are a little too impressive for the space, heavy wood and brass, but it’s anchored by the monolithic floor safe behind him.

“Gentlemen, welcome, make yourself at home,” He rasps, and Charon waits until they both step inside before closing the door behind them. “Please, sit.”

He has only one chair across from him. Barret makes no move for it, but Murphy doesn’t pretend that he was waiting for him to, besides, taking the seat for himself. Barrett steps behind Murphy and sets the duffel bag next to him in one motion.

He crosses his arms, giving one sidelong glance to Charon. Charon would much rather fade into the background. He’s not interested in helping Ahzrukhal more than he needs to. He’s been careful not to step fully in front of the door and block the exit, to rankle this ghoul’s chained bulldog.

“I hope you found your way here easily enough?”

“Oh, yeah, Barrett’s a terrific navigator.”

“Wonderful.” Ahzrukhal smiles.

Murphy leans his body forward, resting his laced hands together against the desk. “But that’s not what we’re here for, right? Talk pleasantries?” His leg is bouncing against the floor, his knee occasionally bumping up against the back of the desk. The thumping noise is already starting to irritate Charon. “No, we’re here to talk about the best business opportunity since Bradburton sold Nuka stocks.”

“Alright, Murphy.” Ahzrukhal responds, his brow creasing. He likes to be the only showman in the room. “Get to the point.”

“Okay—” Murphy taps his fingers against the edge of the desk. “So, you’re familiar with jet?”

“I’m telling you,” Murphy jams his fingers against the top of the desk, “This stuff is strong. And good.”

It’s becoming quickly apparent why Ahzrukhal never warned him of this meeting. Charon tries to subtly glare at Ahzrukhal, but his focus is entirely on Murphy. He would have never agreed to act as his muscle in a drug deal; he wants no part in this. He’s carried boxes for Ahzrukhal before, and delivered things, but only ever sealed containers that lets him claim a shred of willful ignorance to its contents.

“Jet’s not so big, over here.”

“No doubt.” Murphy smiles, twisting fully in his seat to turn to Barrett. “Would you...?” He touches Barrett’s perpetually crossed arms meaningfully, just a light brushing of his fingers near the crux of his elbow. Charon watches the way his arms unfurl from around his chest, purposeful, something undeniably soft momentarily passing his face.

Barrett’s eyes shift and he catches Charon’s stare. He knows his face is steeled neutral, but Barrett frowns, looking away quickly. He leans down, wordless, to reach into the unzipped bag at their feet. He pulls out two inhalers, though from the plastic sounds that came out of the bag when he reached in the bag, there must be many more inside. Placing them on the table squarely in front of Murphy, he straightens up to his full height. Ahzrukhal doesn’t seem to notice what’s transpired between the two drug runners. He’s still staring hard at Charon, and finally turns as Murphy picks up the inhalers.

He holds out his hands with a flourish. There are two inhalers in his hand. The left, Charon can see a noxious orange liquid sloshing inside of the canister. The right canister has been painted a solid red. “I got a taste myself out West, in Nevada. It hasn’t traveled like it should. Suppliers are stingy with it, they only make enough to supply their base out west; why try to push it out when they make plenty of money at home? Avoid the attention of the feds, am I right? Well, jet, you know— but,” He turns, to Charon, briefly, as if he’s included, “For those uninformed, it’s a good, clean high. Everything just,“ He moves his hand in a sharp slash through the air, “Speeds up. No come up time, and a strong, hour-long high... for humans.”

Ahzrukhal hums in reply, his eyebrows raising. “I’m listening.”

Murphy tries to hide his smug smile behind adjusting his glasses. “Ghouls are a different story. Fifteen minutes, tops, and the high isn’t the same.”

Leaning forward, Ahzrukhal smiles, unkind. “And you have the answer for that.”

“Exactly. Ultrajet.” Murphy, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. “I’ve fixed all that. This is my special formula. I’m telling you, there’s nothing like it on the market. Twice the potency. Perfect for ghouls, and the adventurous human.” He puts both on the table, and slides one inhaler across the table, than the other. “Ultrajet’s the painted one. Go on. Compare and contrast.”

Ahzrukhal squints. He picks up the inhaler.

“Your prices, frankly,” Ahzrukhal clutches the inhaler in his hand, idly shaking it. Something inside it clicks as his hand moves. “Are ludicrous.”

“Who—“

Ahzrukhal holds up a finger, silencing him immediately. Charon can see it, from the corner of his eyes, Barrett bodily flinching behind Murphy, in Ahzrukhal’s line of sight; his eyes drift up, but only momentarily, not once stalling his speech. “And what’s to keep me from finding someone who will sell me normal jet for smoothskins? The majority of my money here at this bar comes from them. Ultrajet seems...” He licks his lips. “Harsh.”

Murphy leans back in his seat. “That is true. But... I’ll be honest, Ahzrukhal.” He sounds genuinely candid, “I’d be surprised if you can find a jet dealer who will sell to us.”

Ahzrukhal smiles, but his silence is telling. He depresses the canister first, and then takes a short inhale from it, as if he’s taking a sip of the air, and exhales right after, blowing it out as easy as a cigarette. Charon’s seen humans take jet— that’s an experience, as he can acutely remember having to shake Leo Stahl from a stupor from a bad strain that had left him momentarily slumped comatose in a puddle behind the bar on a packed Friday night. But jet for ghouls was useless; it’s as mild as prescribed mentats, but still priced with the rarity and magnitude of a smoothskin in mind.

Murphy points to the ultrajet on the desk. “I’m serious. It’ll blow your mind.” He’s watching Ahzrukhal intently, eagerly trying to parse his reaction. Even the normal jet must be his own product. “Go on,” Behind him, Barrett crosses his bulky arms across his chest, leaning forward. “Tell me what you think.”

Charon is wondering if he can leave. He glances at the door, and takes a half step towards it.

Ahzrukhal immediately looks up, locking onto him. “Charon,” He slides the painted jet across the desktop, towards the direction of where Charon is standing. It nearly skitters off the edge, but stops just short. “Would you want a taste?”

Sweat instantaneously prickles up on the back of his neck, where the collar of his t-shirt rests. He lets his eyes dart down to the inhaler. “No.” Charon has dabbled. Ahzrukhal’s eyes narrow. He’s taken buffout, occasionally, when his body is sore for weeks in a row and he just wants some relief. He smokes cigarettes much more than he should, and he drinks, but not as much as he used to. Nothing harder than that. Jet has always been a warning of danger packed in a red little inhaler, and idea of a concentrated version makes his blood run cold.

He fears it more than he fears Ahzrukhal’s retribution for denying him. Almost. Though, when Ahrukhal smiles, all teeth, he’s already second-guessing his decisions. “Come here, Charon.”

Charon grits his teeth. He takes a step forward.

“I need to know the quality of this jet, Charon, and if it truly works on ghouls. This is an opportunity for both of us— aren’t you excited that I chose you, specifically, to help me with this?” It’s never good when he keeps repeating his name like that, nailing him to the moment. On his inhale, Charon can acutely hear the phlegm rattling in the back of Ahzrukhal’s throat, “You’ll be fine. You don’t imbibe, do you? Not like Wooz, or Leo, hmm?”

“It’s an acquired taste.” Murphy lies, knee still bouncing.

Ahzrukhal leans forward, snatching the ultrajet from the edge of the table and tossing it to Charon. He catches it, of course. The canister’s temperature is noticeably cooler than room temperature, and he can feel liquid moving in it when he turns it in his hands.

“Try it.”

Charon looks to the safe behind Ahzrukhal. When he looks back at Ahzrukhal, his eyes are on him, having followed his line of sight. He will not deny Ahzrukhal twice, but he does pull a sour face as he raises the inhaler to his mouth. He’s never triggered one of these before, and he realizes too late that he’s using too much force to press it down, emptying the canister. There’s nothing really left in it when he depresses the top, though the taste of it skirts the top of his tongue and it’s incredibly foul. Like canned air and gasoline and something else, chemical and sour, unnatural. As soon as he’s breathed in fully, the first hint of an exhale rushes up around him, up to his ears, cottoning his head.

“Wow.” Charon coughs, but doesn’t mean to. Murphy is grinning at him, his eyes strangely small behind the lenses of his glasses. His voice sounds far away, echoing in his own head.

“Not bad, right?” His words are too slow. Murphy turns to Ahzrukhal, whom the question was really meant for. Charon does not like to be intoxicated, not in this capacity. Panic is shooting— no, it’s creeping, tentacles curling forward, the suction cups popping off and on along his skin, a treacle of anxiety that he has to watch, unable to stop it, bubble up to the forefront of his mind. “And I can make this type of product, consistent quality, for your sole distribution.”

“You can see it in his eyes,” Ahzrukhal says, pointing at him with his entire hand, his fingers spreading out slowly. He can see each joint in his fingers flexing, the way his knuckles pop and his fingers unfurl away from his hand.

“Exactly,” Murphy can’t keep the excitement from bleeding into his voice, switching rapidly from businessman to proud inventor, gazing at Charon with all the benevolence of a scientist with his test subject. “Good, right?”

Charon opens his mouth. Ahzrukhal laughs. “Look at him.” His voice comes out too slowly. He raises a hand, flicking it dismissively. “I apologize.”

For him? Charon feels sweat prickling over his palms acutely, as if he can actually feel each ragged pore open and start to weep.

“Oh, no. No apologies necessary.” Murphy’s eyes have expanded under his glasses. “I love seeing my product in use. Really showcase my quality.” When he reaches behind him, Charon can see that Barrett already has a clipboard in hand that he’s handing to Murphy.

“Results are results. Lets get down to brass tacks, shall we?” His eyes flit up to Charon, and on sustained, direct contact Ahzrukhal’s face distorts, cruel. “That will be all,” He breathes, “Charon.”

Charon cannot wait to turn for the door. The knob rattles in his hands, trembling minutely; as he steps through the doorway, he looks down at his feet.

Charon startles when he looks back up, snorting, sharp and sudden, as if waking from sleep. He glances around the bar, and— no, he had fallen asleep, hadn’t he, his neck aching as if he had nodded off against his chest. But he hadn’t. Had he? His mind tries to access the point between the doorway, to the now- him behind the bar again.

He flexes his fingers, clumsily dropping the glass in his hand half an inch before his brain can process that he is holding something; he catches it before it shatters on the ground.

“Are you alright?” Leo Stahl is sitting in a booth against the wall; there’s a rag on the table, neglected in favor of texting on his phone. Ahzrukhal would have his hide for that, if he was still here. “You get off in thirty minutes, right?”

Charon blinks. He hadn’t heard Leo come in. It’s dark outside, from the looks of the window above Stahl’s head. Has he been sitting there this entire time? Has Charon? “What time is it?”

“Five.”

He was supposed to have gone home half an hour ago.

“Where’s Wooz?” His voice sounds hoarse in his ears.

Leo pockets his phone and grabs the dishrag from the table as he scoots out of his seat. “Playing Tragic in the back closet. You know he’s no fucking help before open.” He slides behind the counter, grabbing the glass from Charon’s hand. “Look, it’s a Monday night. We don’t need a bouncer.” He jerks his thumb towards the door, “Head home.”

Charon walks to the station. There’s a weariness that has seeped into his bones, pure exhaustion that makes all six feet plus of him wobble on his feet. It feels like he has been glazed over; things are going too fast, people blurring past him like lights. Or, maybe those are the lights of the metro tunnels, flickering on the walls as they pass the stops. When he blinks, he’s stepping off of the car, jostled between people in coats, 9 to 5s trying to make their way home. He acutely feels like he’s stepping into each moment, down into a hole through time, and suddenly when he steps forward again, he’s falling and blinking back into his apartment, tumbling forward to the couch, kinetic energy the only force driving him forward.

Willow shakes his shoulder. “Charon. Charon?”

He feels his body move, bonelessly wobbling against the couch cushions. His hands ache, in the palm, when he flexes his fingers, trying to grasp her arm.

“Charon?” She whispers.

He peels open one eye. He has an acute sense of time loss; as if he had fallen asleep in a casual nap, except, he has no idea what time it is, if it is even the same day. His living room is dark, way past sundown, but with the curtains still open from earlier he can see everything in the city lights reflecting in. She looks concerned. Charon closes his eyes. It’s still too bright. “Yes?” He feels very, very tired.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Charon says, slowly, “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say THANK YOU everyone for reading this and also trusting me w a modern AU. I’ll have another chapter posted next Monday, and hopefully will continue the one a week posting since I actually have everything well-outlined for once.


	4. it takes someone to come around to show you how

Adam arrives at his Intro to Philosophy class later than usual so he can verify if and where Sole Park sits. He’s usually one of the first in, waiting for the professor to unlock the classroom door. It’s only a class of thirty or so, so when he steps into the room, it’s easy to spot him sitting in the back row of loosely grouped attached desks, close to the aisle. Even from the doorway, he’s noticeable. Sole’s a big guy, on the taller end, but also just built strong, in general, looking a little hunched in his seat.

Adam had looked his picture up in the school database, just to make sure; he looked noticeably younger in the photo taken for his school ID, and Adam wonders if he looks any different, either, though its been much less time for him since his summer orientation.

Adam carefully pushes his way past the rows. He feels especially large with his overstuffed backpack and the extra coat he’s clutching in his arms, bumping clumsily into the hard edges of desks, mumbling apologies until he finally gets to the end.

“Excuse me,” The chair to Sole’s left is empty; the one on his right is taken by the sullen-faced high-schooler savant who always likes to bicker with the professor. He pulls a face when Adam shimmies past, but doesn’t make eye contact. Adam sits down heavily in the seat next to Sole. Sole hasn’t looked up from his phone once. 

“Mr. Park,” Professor Dashwood is calling from the front, and Adam looks up as well, almost alarmed that somehow his plan is known. “I need that travel letter ASAP.” He taps the blackboard with a piece of chalk. “Don’t forget.”

Sole waves a hand at him, finally looking away from his phone, and smiles out of politeness. “Alright, Dr. D.”

Dr. Dashwood turns away to write on the board. No, obviously he didn’t know his mission to illegally procure a new, illegal, very illegal ID. He drapes Charon’s coat over the back of his chair, then shrugs off his own. He’s not even sure if he’s going to go through with it, asking him. He’s not even sure how he managed to get here; mostly, his actions have snowballed, and somehow he’s been brave enough not to give in and shrink back. Adam opens his backpack with a tense exhale, pulling out his textbook, an overly flagged copy of Republic, pens, his agenda, a notebook— he lays everything neatly on the desk and then shoves his still overstuffed bag partially under his chair. His palms feel noticeably sweaty. Part of him wants to shove everything back into his bag and run down to his usual seat in the front row, or, more likely, run out of class and not come back until Friday—

“Hey, ain’t mean to bother, but would you happen to have an extra pen?”

Adam turns his head to Sole, who’s actually looking at him. “Oh, um, sure.” Sole has a deflated backpack at his feet and a ragged notebook on his desk, along with the textbook with a large ‘DO NOT REMOVE FROM LIBRARY’ sticker on the front in neon yellow.

Now that Sole is looking at him and not his phone, with that kind of bashful, approachable smile, his idea to just— ask for a fake feels ridiculous. He’s approachable, but he feels incredibly untouchable by Adam's standards. He's just— too much. Popular with most people, on the D1 lacrosse varsity team, intimidatingly handsome. He’s all tan with dark eyes and a slick, faded buzz cut that makes his overgrown curls feel frumpy. He has to stare at his hand when he gives him a spare pen, as if he could do it wrong and completely fuck it up. Stab him with it, or something. Sole hasn’t even noticed Adam’s not supposed to be here, sitting next to him. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

Sole takes it. “Thanks.”

“No, uh, problem.”

Adam squints towards the blackboard, which seems further away than it should; he usually sits up front, at the end of the aisle, next to one of the commuter students named Gob. He was a part-time student, and incredibly nice; they usually traded notes after class, especially since the first few weeks of the semester, Gob’s writing had been seriously hampered by his arm being in a splint. 

The older ghoul actually does a double take when he walks in, seeing two seats open near the front; he scans the class, sees Adam, and his eyes widen in recognition. Adam gives him a slight wave, at loss of what else to do, his fingers crooking hesitantly. Gob just seems confused, and maybe a little hurt. He sits in his usual seat, up front, now with two empty seats as a buffer on either side. Adam will have to make it up to him, somehow.

“Hate to bother you again, but,” Sole speaks up at his side, “What was due today?”

Adam’s attention turns. “Oh! The reading. Uh.” He shifts things aside on his crowded desk, flipping over his agenda so he can read directly from it. “Pages one thirty-four to one sixty in the text book, and a one page opinion piece on one of, uhm,” He flips through pages, trying not to directly meet Sole’s gaze, “one of Plato’s analogies.”

When he looks up, Sole still looks confused. Adam explains, “You know, the sun or the line or, uh— the cave.”

Sole’s thick brows knit together as he leans in, his voice low. “I thought they were allegories?”

“I, uh. I think the cave is just an allegory.” Adam flusters, feels himself leaning back. “Or, maybe they’re all allegories. I’m not sure.”

Maybe he won’t ask Sole. Maybe he’ll just— and now the thought of how, after this, he was planning on catching the bus to the 9th Circle and finally return Charon’s jacket— maybe he shouldn’t do that, either. Maybe Charon didn’t need the jacket, not really, and wouldn’t care if Adam ever brought it back. It would be a lot easier just to do nothing, and not have to face the potential, looming sting of rejection.

“Alright, everyone.” The general murmur of the class dies down as Dr. Dashwood addresses the class. “Please open up your textbooks to page one hundred and thirty...”

Usually he finds Dashwood’s class interesting. He’s a charismatic professor, and peppers what could be a boring, too thinly-spread introduction class with personal stories that just border on the unbelievable; he’s always connecting philosophic concepts to his adventures with his now-husband Argyle in his youth, traveling to distant countries back when you could, sailing the seas, climbing cliff-faces barehanded.

But right now Adam can’t concentrate, unable to focus on either philosophy or the fake ID, absently circling his pen across the margins of his notebook; though, somehow, this is manifesting in daydreaming about being stuck in a cave, watching projections of Butch and Amata march by, their distorted shadows balancing cans and bottles on their heads. It feels ludicrous to equate drinking with enlightenment, but he can’t stop thinking how he’s going to be left behind again. He had promised himself that college would be different; he wasn’t going to let it slip by like high school had. But his freshman year was already hurtling to its end, and he had nothing to show for it. Ahzrukhal, in one swift, cold night, had wrestled him back into the seat, strapping his head to the chair.

Adam takes in a steeling breath. And then another one, because deep breathing as a courage tactic was pretty flimsy, all things considered; he feels propelled on pure anxiety alone.

“Do you. Uh.” His own words sound distant in his head. He’s thankful Sole is looking at the chalkboard, and not him, because if he made direct eye contact, he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to finish his sentence: “Make fake IDs?”

Sole turns to look at him, and his gentle face flashes with something very sudden and dark under his short eyelashes, a micro-twitch that bounces back immediately to a baleful smile. Adam feels his body tense. “Awful strange question to ask. Now,” Sole’s voice is nice and low, his eyes slowly sweeping around. “who was goin’ around spreading those types of rumors?”

“I—“ Adam stutters. His gaze breaks away to Dr. Dashwood, at the front, who is still talking with his back to the class. “Uh.” He can acutely feel sweat prickling up on the back of his neck, all the way down his spine to the small of his back, pooling there. He doesn’t want to say Butch, or Freddie, but his mind is racing to say something and he croaks out the first name he can remember: “Sarah?”

Sole scoffs. “Lyons?” And then he stops, realization dawning on his face. “Oh.” It’s such a small, unguarded sound, Adam’s sure he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“Sorry.” He croaks. He desperately hopes this wont get back to Sarah; he knows her, she’s nice. “I mean—“ Sole’s attention turns back to Adam, and he can hear his voice losing its confidence as he speaks, “I lost my ID, last weekend. It, uh...” He laughs nervously, watching for Sole’s reaction. “The bouncer— he was. It was a New York ID, and it was so cold out, it just— the owner actually came out, and snapped it in half.”

Sole laughs. It’s real, and overly loud, and other students are glancing away from their notebooks at them both. Dashwood is turning away from the chalkboard, his kind face scrunching into disapproval, wrinkles deepening.

“Mr. Park, please.” He’s staring at Sole, but he does give a halfway glance towards Adam, and his heart nearly bursts in his chest. “I know Plato can’t be that humorous, right?”

“It ain’t.” Sole has to wrestle down his wry smile, “Sorry, Dr. D.”

Dashwood gives Sole one last meaningful look before he turns back to the board. The rest of class is generally uneventful. Adam has done the reading, as assigned, but Dashwood teaches the class on the assumption that nobody else has, and by the way Sole is furiously scratching away, most hadn’t. The heart-pumping fear of suddenly being almost called out on has only left Adam with adrenaline; so he takes notes in shorthand, just as reinforcement of what he’s learned, his foot bouncing under his seat. He actually asked Sole— which, was terrifying, and turned out to be a dead end, but it’s still something he had taken the initiative on, instead of relying on Amata or Butch. It feels... good, and Adam has to hide his smile behind a hand, too worried of someone spying him smiling like an idiot at his own notes.

He’s relieved when class is finally finished, Dashwood assigning homework in chicken scratch chalk across the board. He was a reliable professor in that way, sticking strictly to class time and regulating his office hours for any questions. Adam fills in his agenda; Friday is a possible quiz, next Monday they need to have finished the first chapter on Kant.

“I can’t get you an ID.”

Sole’s packing up his things, not looking Adam in the eye. For a second, he thinks he imagined it, but then Sole speaks again, flipping his notebook closed, voice low, “I ain’t got a machine in my room, or whatever.” His eyes shift, “And don’t spread those kind of rumors. Can get a innocent man in trouble with words like that, huh?”

“I get it.” Adam mumbles, struck rabbit-still in his seat.

“Hey, you know what, though—“ He kind of laughs, to himself, but it doesn’t seem like its at him, which is usually how it feels when someone’s laughing and Adam isn’t. “You doin’ anything Friday?”

“Uh,” Adam swallows, “Probably, uh,” His brain is blanking on something good, not just sitting in his room with a pint of ice cream playing Red Menace on his phone until he fell asleep, so he just says what he did last weekend: “Going to the 9th Circle, maybe. If I can get in. You know.”

“Yeah, yeah. The ID. Hell, I kind of want to see it.” Sole chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s some underclassman shit, though, that nasty bar.” He grins. “I don’t know how ya’ll do it. Listen, I’m having a party on Friday, over in Braun.”

Braun— oh, the good dorms, the upperclassmen ones on the north side of campus. But usually, those dorms were taken by seniors, not even juniors. That makes him perk up. A very small part of Adam feels like how he bets being asked to prom would have felt, his heart fluttering in his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sole zips up his backpack, very nonchalant. The sheer fact that he doesn’t realize how cool he is could strike Adam dead from nerves on the spot. People like him should not be asking him over, interacting with him in ways that weren’t out of either obligation or mockery. “Starts maybe around eight, nine, give or take. Might go out afterwards, but nowhere that’d let you in.”

“Uh, sure. Maybe.” This is happening very fast for Adam. He’s trying to find the right words, before he fucks this up. “Can I bring some friends?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Just, uh, my friends Amata and Butch.”

Sole shrugs. There’s clearly no recognition with either of those names. “Yeah, alright.” He stands, rapping his knuckles against the edge of Adam’s desk. “Braun, one-eleven. I’ll see you there.” 

Adam just nods as Sole shimmies past him, watching his leave the classroom. His pulse is still loud in his ears. He nearly forgets Charon’s coat, sitting draped over the back of the chair, bumping into other students filing out of rows to grab it.

Adam waves to Gob, who is still slowly packing his things away, as he’s leaving. Normally, he would stop and chat, and walk with the ghoul to his car on his way back to his dorm, but he’s going a different direction and a part of him doesn’t want to explain to others where he’s going, not after the fuss Amata and Butch made. Gob gives him another poorly masked wounded look when he waves back.

On the bus, he settles into a seat near the front and pulls out his phone, sliding out the keyboard. He types and retypes a message to Gob. Some are apologies, some are greetings. He sends nothing, unable to formulate the right words. Adam ends up taking pictures of his notes, holding them steady on his lap through the potholes and tight turns. He sends an email from his phone to Gob’s school address, with just a smiley face in the body and pictures of the notes attached. As soon as that’s sent, he pulls up the group chat that he has with Amata and Butch:

 

**ONEOHONE**

me: Hey I think we’re invited to parks party Friday?

Amata: What?

B: what did you talk to him i told you i was talking to freddie

B: what the hell

 

He can feel any confidence still lingering draining out of him slowly, leaving him empty in its wake, anxiety rising to take its place.

 

me: no

me: Not like that

me: I have philosophy w him

B: k

me: and we were just talking and he invited me. He said I could bring people.

B: k

 

The bus pulls off to his stop just as he sees that Amata has started to type a reply. He shoves his phone into his pocket before she can respond, half-standing with Charon’s coat draped over his arm as the bus pulls over to the far right lane to stop.

In the light of day, the street looks different. There’s something mysterious and fun about going out, even he has to admit, when it’s cloaked in darkness and the night has been glazed over with a few drinks. He’s only seen the 9th Circle during witching hours, so it’s a jolt to see the bar so plain in the day, the sun shining on the faded form stone bricks, litter skittering by in the sharp wind. The 9th Circle looks particularly grimy, though, even from the outside. Adam feels like he should take a picture of it, for some reason; like he’s caught the mysterious stranger, and wants proof to show everyone later that it wasn’t half the myth it was made out to be, sad and stained. 

He takes out his phone. Amata’s reply pops up on his screen as soon as he slides out the keyboard: Sounds great. Meet for early dinner later at Drumlin? More texts from Butch are underneath, sent separate from the group chat; he snaps his phone closed, the screen going dark, before he reads them.

He puts his phone back in his pocket, trying to focus at the task at hand. He will reply after this. It feels weird to approach the door. He almost knocks, but that, he reasons, would be silly; it’s a business, not a home— so instead, he just tries the handle, and it’s unlocked. The wind grips the door as soon as its cracked open, threatening to swing wide against the opposite wall; Adam grapples with it, momentarily, darting inside. Somehow, the wind lets up, and he’s able to close it softly behind him, before it threatens to slam open again.

Despite it being day, the 9th Circle isn’t much brighter than he imagines it is at night. Adam’s eyes have to adjust in the dim light to see. The front door of the 9th Circle leads to a narrow hallway that opens up into the main bar, and there’s no direct lighting in the hallway, the dated dark wood wall paneling absorbing much of the light coming from the bar.

“Charon!“

That’s the owner— Charon’s boss, Ahzrukhal, his voice ringing from the room over, the abrupt loudness of it nearly making him jump out of his skin. There’s something inherently mean in the way he’s barking, though he’s clearly not screaming out of anger; loudness for the sake of it.

“Ahzrukhal—“ Adam freezes. That’s Charon’s voice, firm and measured. There’s the sound of something heavy being dropped onto a table. He can see shadows moving at the end of the hall, the soft, vague form of a body stepping back, another wavering forward. “No, no. I refuse.”

“You what?”

“I will not be doing this.” Charon’s voice is low, and dark. Adam’s too petrified to approach the end of the hall, bracing his hand against the far wall, trying to lean away from the entry.

“You will be doing as I say.”

“No. Not this time. I—“

“What about our agreement, Charon? Our little contract? Hm?”

Adam can hear Ahzrukhal’s breath rattling like pestilence as he clutches Charon’s coat tight to his chest.

“Where would you go if not for me, boy?”

Silence.

“Back home?” He asks. There are things left unsaid, but the ghosts of them are hovering over them. Adam can’t see them, but he can feel them, even hidden in the hallway, sinking cold into his chest. He chances a glance behind him, at the door.

Charon still has not spoken. There’s silence. The air feels dangerous; Adam is afraid to breathe. “That’s right.” Ahzrukhal growls. “Now, not another word. Don’t act like you’re growing a conscience on me all of a sudden. You overestimate how useful you are with an attitude.”

By the time Adam hears footsteps approaching, it’s too late to leave. Besides, he’d hear the door opening, see the sunlight coming in. He doesn’t know what else to do but drop back against the wall, towards the corner, pressing himself firm against the wood paneling. It feels tacky to the touch, the spiderweb that’s caught him here. Ahzrukhal’s face is grim, especially in the dark shadows; he feels impossibly large in the small hall, but somehow, they don’t touch, even with his arms swinging in a power walk. Adam only releases his breath when the door has swung shut behind Ahzrukhal and the lock of the door finally clicks. His chest is heaving, silently breathing though his nose, clutching Charon’s jacket to his chest like a security blanket.

He’s only woken by his panic-induced reverie at the sound of glass breaking. That finally startles him to standing. Maybe he should head home; being brave is proving to be incredibly exhausting. 

Adam finally walks down the hall, into the main bar area. He knows he would feel guilty just tossing the coat to the ground and bolting; it was only polite to hand it back. He’s always been very light of step, so Charon doesn’t look up when he enters, silent. Charon’s face is dark, glaring hard at the bar as he roughly wipes the bar down, hard enough that he’s sure he could sand it down, even with only a soggy dishrag. There’s a cardboard box on the corner of the bar, the top flaps pried up partially, but not enough that Adam can see what’s in it from where he’s standing.

Adam takes another step forward. Charon tosses the rag aside, ducking under the bar; there’s the sound of glass moving, brushing, and when he surfaces, he’s holding a small dustpan filled with shards of what looks like a pint. Maybe he should say something? But he’s not sure what, so the sound that comes out of his throat is more of a half-croak, half-throat clearing garble.

“Yes, Ahzrukhal—“ Adam’s not sure if he should be alarmed that whatever sound he just made could pass for coming out of that ghoul, but he doesn’t have much time to think on it when Charon looks up and settles on him. “You.” There’s something in his eyes— Adam freezes, as if he wont be able to spot him if he stays absolutely still, though of course Charon still can, moving out from behind the bar and stalking towards him.

There’s something in his eyes that almost reminds him of Butch, in a way, nearly triggering his fight or flight. “Why are you here?” Charon asks. Adam takes a step back. Charon stops, immediately, leaving a few feet between them. He’s still holding the dustpan, and he kind of tosses it onto one of the tall cocktail tables that are dotted around the room. The glass shards rattle, threatening to jump out and onto the table. “At this time?”

“I-I—“ He clutches his jacket to his chest, trying to find the words. “I— I have your jacket.” Adam’s shoulders crawl up to his ears, “I thought, uh. Either you’d be here, or maybe I’d leave it here, for when you would...” Charon’s face is softening from his hard glare to something more neutral, almost kind. “You, uh, you would be here.”

“Oh.” Charon’s voice has lost all its hardness. He looks away, his shoulders slumping. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine. It’s okay.” Adam mumbles. Hesitantly, he bridges the gap between the two of them. “I, uh. Sorry it took me so long to return it.”

Charon shakes his head. “It’s only been three days. I am glad you did.” His tone is flat as he reaches for the folded jacket from Adam’s arms. Their hands brush in the process; Charon’s skin is dry and warm against his own, slightly rough dragging against his fingers. “I appreciate it.” He frowns, turning away somewhat. “And I apologize for the outburst.”

“It’s— it’s fine. I, uh.” Adam rubs the back of his neck. For a moment, he had almost expected his own skin to feel like Charon’s, but it doesn’t, just the callouses from writing against the wiry hairs at the nape. “It’s been cold out, lately.” He finishes, lamely. A part of him wants to tell Charon what he’s just heard, but it doesn’t feel like a good idea. He shouldn’t have heard it in the first place. Instead, he glances towards the bar. “Are, uh. Are you. I heard a crash?”

Charon pauses to look at him, momentarily, before he shakes his head. “I dropped a glass.” He turns to glance near the floor; Adam follows his line of sight, and he can see a few shards still glittering on the black rubber mat on the floor.

Adam very much doubts that this is true, but he doesn’t push it. He’s done similar things before. When the Tunnel Snakes were still very much a sneering, adolescent and testosterone-fueled thing, the school years stretching far and without end in front of him, the occasional screamed-into and shredded pillow kept him sane. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Charon grunts. He takes the coat back behind the bar, hanging it up on a small rack at the end that wobbles under the new weight.

Adam automatically grabs the dust-bin and broom from the table. When Charon sees him with it, his brow furrows, but he meets him halfway to take them from his hands.

“You have your phone and money to get back home this time, right?” Charon asks. Adam can detect a hint of amusement there.

“Yeah, this time.” Adam’s smile is kind of lopsided. “Usually, I do.” Without Charon’s coat in his arms, they feel strangely empty. He wraps an arm across his chest, rubbing at his bicep.

Charon just looks at him. The corner of his mouth ticks upward, momentarily.

“Well—“ He feels compelled to say it, even if Charon doesn’t care, because the last he talked to him, he had been okay to trash talk his only friend: and, though slightly deserved, he feels guilty about it. “Amata, she did, she apologized, you know.”

Charon pauses. “The girl, right?” Adam doesn’t think the name Amata is so unusual that it would be hard to place, but he nods either way. Charon snorts, tossing the glass into the trash can, and moving back behind the bar to sweep up the remaining fragments. “And what about the other one?”

“Butch?” Adam huffs. “No. Never.”

Charon makes a noise in the back of his throat, that, somehow, conveys a note of annoyed understanding. He takes a few steps towards him, shifting his backpack higher up on his shoulders.

He leans over the bar. Charon is crouched on the ground, still sweeping up pieces with the worn brush. “Do you have bread?”

He looks up at Adam, squinting. “What?”

“Uh, bread.” Adam makes a dabbing motion, which is probably less clarifying then he thinks it is, “Bread picks up little pieces of glass.”

Charon’s forehead is one deep, confused line. “No.”

“It, uh. It works. Really.” He continues, still pantomiming his bread dabbing action, though the movement is getting slower as Charon keeps staring at him. “If you— if you’re having trouble, I could run down to the mart down the street, pick up, uh, some hamburger buns or something.”

Charon just blinks up at him for a moment longer before he shakes his head and turns back to sweeping. “No.”

Adam leans back. “Uh. O-okay.”

His phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket. It’s Butch, again: what did u say to sole did you rat out freddie hell kill me if siera hears about it. And below that, an email notification from Gob: a smiley face back, and an attachment of notes.png.

He puts his phone away, answering neither. Charon’s standing straight and upright, again, and it strikes him this close how tall he is, though it feels silly how noticeable it is. It’s not like Adam’s never seen anyone as tall as Charon, but he carries himself in a way that pulls his attention, unable to focus on anything in the room but.

He cuts a path through the barstools, towards a back hallway. Adam owlishly watches him leave, keeping his eyes to mid-back level. Generally, he knows, someone would have shown him the door by now. But Charon hasn’t, not yet, and if Charon isn’t going to kick him out, he’ll stay a little longer. Adam finds himself picking up coasters, having to dig his nail underneath to pry it from the sticky grasp of the table; they make a satisfying crack when they finally separate. When he looks up, Charon is back, and watching him, standing against a far wall.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Adam shrugs, wordlessly, bringing the pile of coasters over and setting them with the others in their tray on the bar.

Charon crosses his arms. “Are you always this helpful?”

“Sorry.” Though, he usually is this helpful— and a part of him, as well, doesn’t want to go back yet. The thought of accidentally running into Butch back on campus, thinking he’d possibly mucked up his name with the popular upperclassmen crowd, is making him a little queasy.

Charon pauses as he slides back behind the bar. “You want anything?”

“Want...?”

Charon picks up a glass, tilting it. “A drink?”

“Oh!” Adam eases himself up on the barstool. “A cherry nuka?”

Charon snorts, “We don’t have that.” Only after he’s asked does Adam realize that, maybe, Charon was asking if he wanted a drink drink, though the thought of anything alcoholic at this time and having to step back out into the real world, slightly buzzed, feels strangely daunting. Charon picks up the soda gun, momentarily weighing it in his hands in thought. He looks up at Adam when he finally settles on an idea: “I can make a Roy Rogers?”

Adam wants that more than anything in the world, but he tries to keep that from his voice. “You don’t have to do that.”

He’s already filling up the glass with ice. “I do not mind making drinks.” He fills up a second glass, setting it next to the first, “I’m not usually put behind bar.”

Adam watches, “Are you any good at it?”

Charon shrugs, holstering the soda gun and reaching for the grenadine; there’s bright red syrup crusted around the cap, smearing across Charon’s fingers as he twists it off. “Average.” He tops off the soda, and then shoves a straw in to stir.

“Cherries?”

Adam flushes, and nods, because he’s too embarrassed to voice a yes.

Charon flips up the lid of the fruit tray, snagging two maraschino cherries by the stem. They drip a line of bright red juice on their way to the glass. When his hand pulls back, he raises his thumb absently to his mouth, his tongue swiping the tip clean. He doesn’t seem conscious of the motion, not entirely, and Adam feels weird that he’s noticed it at all. “Cherries are about the only things you should eat at the bar.”

“How come?”

He snatches a tiny stirrer and gives the soda one last stir before placing his finger over the top, pulling it out to take a taste from the straw. There’s nothing on Charon’s face that conveys any sort of opinion. He can’t anticipate if this is going to be bad, and a part of him is suddenly dreading the possibility of choking down a syrup-soaked, flat concoction. Adam knows, even if it’s bad, he will finish most of it out of politeness. “The limes and lemons are never washed.”

Adam blinks, “Shouldn’t they be?”

“Yes. Are they?” Charon shakes his head as if he’s thinking of someone in particular. He puts the glass up on the bar, and a fresh straw, “No.”

“Good... good to know. I think.” He takes his drink from the bar, watching as Charon grabs another glass from below the bar. The first sip is a little strong on the syrup, but when he stirs it again, the ice clinking against the glass, the second sip comes out perfect, sweet and nostalgic.

Adam braces his forearms against the sticky bar top, taking long sips, trying to drink as much as he can when everything was still freshly cold and carbonated. He watches as Charon prepares another drink, using the ice-filled glass from early. Syrup, soda, stir, exactly the same as his.

“Are you making one for yourself?” He doesn’t mean to sound as surprised as the words come out.

“Yes.” Adam only catches the slightest twitch of a smile on Charon’s face.

“I, uh. Not that.” Adam gestures lamely. “Just.” Just, he had noticed Charon liked sweet things. And it wasn’t weird, but— maybe it was weird he was noticing, in the first place, so instead of voicing his thoughts he stops while he’s behind, occupying his mouth with the straw again, staring down at his drink. When he looks back up, Charon’s leaning halfway against the bar, his forearms braced against the bar top. They look— good, in a faded black t-shirt, the short sleeves pulling just taut enough, in a weird way, because when he steals glances at his arms, he can map the corded muscles that are showing through his flayed skin. Biology would have been a lot easier if the models looked more like this.

“Don’t you have class?”

Adam coughs. If Charon had noticed him staring, he hasn’t said anything. “I had one this, uh, morning. Philosophy.”

Charon’s brows rise, but otherwise his face is flat. “Philosophy.” He takes a sip from his drink, hands-free, just leaning in to drink from the straw. 

“Yeah,” Adam croaks, but he doesn’t know why. When he takes another sip, the ice rattles as the dregs of the drink are sucked up into the straw; it sounds comically loud. He hadn’t realized he drank it so fast— he stirs it around, once, twice. “It’s— it’s okay. It’s, uh, my only one for today.”

In his pocket, his pip-boy vibrates again. Adam frowns down at the red-tinged ice, taking one last sip before he pushes the glass forward. “Thanks, uhm. I should probably head back.”

“You should.” Charon agrees, checking the yellowed clock on the wall. He looks down at the glass in his hands, “Thank you, for returning my jacket.”

“Oh! It was, it was no problem.” He’s practically speaking into his coat collar as he slides off the stool, shoving his hands self-consciously into his pockets, twisting his fingers nervously together. “And, for the soda, uhm—“

“On the house.” Charon reaffirms.

Adam looks up at him, “Thanks. Uh— thanks.”

In the amount of time he had been in the bar, somehow, he had forgotten how bright it was outside, startled as soon as the door opens, the wind biting at his face. A part of him almost wants to go back into the dim warmth of the bar, but he has no real reason to stay. He walks five blocks to the next bus stop, and catches one going back to the university there.

Adam spends the bus ride back with his face nearly touching the window, gazing out as the buildings pass. He tries to recognize them, find landmarks, from the last time he was driven from around this area back to his university; he truly thinks, maybe, this time he recognizes where he is sooner on the route. But he’s not really sure until he sees the signs in the signature Vault-Tec blue, the yellow eye flapping on the light post flags that dot the immediate neighborhood around the university.

He disembarks at his stop, and walks the short distance onto campus and towards the main dining hall. Drumlin is usually busy, but on a Wednesday afternoon before the dinner rush, it’s mostly empty. He can see Amata and Butch at their own table already with their plates, waiting for him as he swipes his ID card to get through the glass doors.

Butch has already zeroed in on Adam, but he doesn’t walk close enough that he can say anything, just giving them both a half wave before he veers towards the buffet. He grabs a plate. If he takes his time grabbing food, maybe Butch will be calm by the time he makes his way back to the table. He still hasn’t replied to any of his messages. The mac and cheese is the only thing that looks edible, though still it somehow looks worse than a box of Blamco, dry on top.

Butch is still leveling him with a strange look, so Adam takes his seat next to Amata on the opposite side when he approaches the table, hesitantly shrugging off his coat to hang on the back of the chair. “Hey...” Amata is picking at a limp salad, flipping a cucumber back and forth with her fork, her introduction to biology textbook open next to her plate.

“So,” She glances up at him, setting a finger on the page to hold her place, “a party?”

Butch scoffs, bristling and barely contained: “You’re shitting me.” Amata’s eyes shift over to him, but Butch ignores her, leaning forward so far the strings of his hoodie are practically resting on top of his pizza. “Sole Park invited you to his party?”

Adam nods, concentrating on the macaroni and cheese on his plate. “I mean, uh, yeah.” He tries to slide a noodle onto each prong of his fork, mostly so he doesn’t have to look up at them, especially Butch, who he can feel hovering. “I sat next to him, in class, a-and— asked if he made fakes—“

Amata gasps, “Adam,” She shakes her head, “You didn’t.”

Butch snorts. “He couldn’t have been serious about you coming, then, if you’re going to try and narc on him in the middle of class.”

Adam looks up. “I didn’t— ‘narc’ on him, I—“ He frowns, “I think he was being honest.”

“Maybe he invited you so he could beat the shit out of you.”

“This isn’t some— bad teen movie, Butch.” Adam mumbles, finally taking a bite of his dinner. The noodles are kind of hard and the cheese sauce is a little gritty. But now that Butch has said it, coming from a former bully, it’s making him paranoid. “He was... nice.”

“I’ve heard he’s really actually sweet.” Amata agrees.

“That’s cause he has an accent.” Butch grumbles, clearly annoyed.

“You’re being stupid.” She frowns, finally turning to him. “You’re always saying you want to go to this party and that party. And now Adam actually gets us invited somewhere, and you don’t want to go?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, you could be nicer about it. It’s not like you’re throwing any parties.”

Butch frowns, “I could, if I wanted. But, you know.” He shrugs. “You know how strict our RA is.” Amata’s eye rolling only makes Butch double down on his point, who continues on even as Amata turns her attention back to her book. “Cross is scary, Amata, she goes on power trips trying to find us doing something wrong.”

“She’s just trying to keep the peace.” She says, half-heartedly. “That’s what RAs do.”

“Yeah? They’re power hungry assholes.” Butch says, and because Amata won’t look up at him and deign him a response, he turns his focus towards Adam, “Come on, nosebleed, back me up. You know Cross.”

Adam shrugs. “I don’t... n-no.”

Butch snorts. “Remember? End of last semester, she wrote up Mags, O’Hanrahan, all of them for watching a movie too loudly during twenty-four seven finals quiet hours. Our room’s right next to them, and I couldn’t hear shit.” He stares at Adam. He hates being called in to take sides whenever they bicker, but it’s always inevitable. “You remember that, right? I thought Poindexter was going to get all weepy when he couldn’t talk her out of it.”

“I do.” Adam admits. He had been studying at the time in his room, three doors down; turns out, his fellow students were a lot louder after they had been written up for watching a movie than before. Poindexter has that kind of voice that travels through walls, especially when he thinks he’s in the right.He’s not sure if Cross actually cared about disturbing people studying for finals as much as she cared about her strangely loyal sense of duty to being an RA. He can’t see how it’s worth it, when she’s a senior stuck in the freshman dorms, but he doesn’t do well in positions of power like that. Amata shakes her head, and Adam gives her a half-hearted shrug.

“Told you.” Butch says.

Amata sighs, “So,” She stabs the cucumber she’s been pushing around her plate with an audible _tink_ , and eats it with a grim finality, “Are we going to this, then? This party?” She looks at Adam, setting her fork down. Butch leans forward a little, exhaling out of his nose.

“Yeah.” Adam nods, eyes going from her, to Butch. “Friday night, over in Braun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen i tried to post this a million times i even emailed the ao3 team and you know what. You know what. The chapter wouldnt post bc there were emojis in it. Thats what happens when you write a modern au.


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